Fish Hooks In The Corners Of Their Mouths
by deletrear
Summary: "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better.'
1. solitary sea-bird

Title: fish hooks in the corners of their mouths  
Category: Books » Harry Potter  
Author: deletrear  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Summary: "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]  
Dedication: This one goes out to bluejanes for being an entirely different league of human being, and billy, who hates SI OCs and shouldn't even be able to read this in the first place but undoubtedly will anyway.  
Notes: I combined chapters one and two in this one, because I can

 _._

* * *

01.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _solitary sea-bird_

* * *

.

 _When I was twelve years old –_

 _The most important part about me is –_

 _To properly understand my situation, I think you would need to –_

I…

Look.

Truthfully, I don't have the faintest idea on how to begin this tale.

Usually I have some clue on how to start out: a few poetic entries here, a sarcastic quip here, a convoluted run-on sentence there – but that was when it was someone else's life; when I was the omniscient god manoeuvring her marionettes to her own tune, the girl who threw her characters into their personal view of hell with a smile, who would crack open fictional people for her own entertainment just to catch a glimpse of what they were made of.

I'm not much of that person anymore.

Why don't you just start at the beginning, you ask? You've heard that's a good place to start stories, is that it?

Aaah… I'm not sure I can do that. Turns out, it's harder to write a beginning when you're writing about yourself. Much, _much_ harder. I think it's because I don't know where or when the story starts.

Is the beginning my rebirth, my ejection from the red-hued paradise and into a grimy world much different from the one I already knew and yet. strikingly similar? Is it the day I came to terms with my unique situation and stopped acknowledging it as an elaborate dream that wouldn't end? Is it the day I received my letter?

When does the story start, exactly? I think it depends on where you look at it.

For some, my story begins when Callidora's does: brought into the world as the trees themselves began to die and rot, as the leaves turned brown and the gentle wildlife creatures begin to stock on food to survive the blistering cold almost upon them. Perhaps that is when the tale begins. In that cramped hospital room, surrounded by family I didn't know I had, blinking from awake from never ending death, shrieking my fears into the cold autumn air.

Maybe it begins with someone else? A young girl born on the other side of the world, on the other side of time, who lived inside blocks of plastic and yellowed paperback books. The one before Callidora with her puppet shows and grand pianos and fresh food in the pantry. It would make sense to start a story here: this is a story with a clear ending, so I can't get too confused about where to go with it.

Huh —

How does it end, you say?

Let's see…

(Picture this: the rolling clouds split open as three teenagers are driving down a winding road at night. The car is alight with a warm, orange glow. They are so, so innocent.

Now picture a sharp corner in an area seemingly empty of foot traffic.

Imagine a hooded figure whose face is highlighted by their phone as they cross the road, earphones in. They do not look up until the car is too close to stop, until they're close enough that the three teenagers catch a glimpse of their face with their headlights, wide-eyed and terrified, before the car finally and futilely shrieks.

Imagine this: a snapping sound, a bloodied windscreen, the sound of the hood giving in as a body rolls off of it, a heavy thump as the hooded pedestrian hits the road.

Imagine: this body does not get up.)

— I - I don't think you need to know how it ends. I think all that matters is that it does. Surely. Inevitably.

Quickly.

Or maybe the story begins with green ink on parchment? Or with barking owls and tabby cats and a crimson red steam train? Perhaps it begins with ancient magicks embedded in crumbling bricks, or with a raggedy hat or red-gold ties; perhaps the story begins on Samhain, in a secluded village, in an invisible house, with a family of three-two- _one_.

You understand, don't you? The situation I am in? How pathetic it is for a writer to not know where a beginning is? For a writer to stare at a blank page and not have the urge to put their ink to it; for a writer to be afraid of endings; for a writer who doesn't have a story to tell?

… You do? Ha. Then you will forgive me, I hope, for fumbling with this. I've only ever written about other people's tales, you see, that I've never had the time to go out and live my own. I suppose it's fitting, then, that my story does not happen under the condition of life, but instead, death.

But your patience with me aside, I'm still unsure of where to start this.

…

… I suppose… Yeah, that – might actually work…

Alright.

I think I know a beginning for you after all.

.

* * *

.

I died young. Sixteen.

It was Christmas holidays that rainy night and I'd been walking to the shops to buy some tampons. Discounting the way it ended, the rest of it was an ordinary day for me. I woke up in the afternoon, ate my breakfast with a side of anti-depressants, and then laid in my bed all day reading instead of answering the messages on my phone. I didn't go out much.

I had taken the Pottermore test, you know. Everyone did. I was a Hufflepuff, which I hadn't liked — never even heard of the house before, and, well, _come on_. _Hufflepuff_? Lame. But I grew to love it. I learned that it didn't matter if you were ambitious or smart or courageous — not really, not so long as you were _kind._ The world survived on compassion. There was nothing to be ashamed of in being kind.

I'm not that person anymore: I am quiet, and I am soft-spoken, and I am protective, but in my first life – in my first life, I had not lived enough with the harsh realities of the world to be truly angry at it. In this life, there is no way I could have possibly escaped it.

(I am tired in this life: tired and sick and a mouse living among snakes. I want to stop being afraid, _but I can't_ —)

But the story doesn't start with my sorting. I'll start with something else.

Like – oh, I don't know. Maybe…

Ah.

Maybe I do have an idea.

.

* * *

.

One of my earliest memories was this:

An arm pressed flush against my skinny neck.

It sounded brutal, but the presence of that arm around my neck was not a malicious one. My sister simply did not know how to hold a child as small as me and didn't have the time nor patience to learn when there was adventure to be found. I was braced against her chest, forearm pressed against my throat and another around my stomach, bouncing as I was carried down the stairs and outside into the garden.

My other two sisters raised their hands and shouted. The sister carrying me yelled back. I was plopped into the seat next to my eldest sister, a bit confused but nonetheless happy to be in their collective company.

The gardens we occupied were beautifully tended. The grass was always freshly cut, permeating a calming earthy scent into the air that mingled with the roses and the smoke bush and summer sweet shrubs. There was a marble gazebo in the shade of a flowering almond tree, fitted with a dancing floor and stone benches and tables on the rim to catch as much sunlight as possible. Our backyard was an open place filled with blooming flowers, and I knew there to be some wild snakes hidden in the trees.

The garden was my favourite part of my home, mostly because it didn't exactly… _fit_ into what was expected of our family: all the colors, the white gazebo, the purple-shimmering snakes and the orange-scaled frill-necked lizards. Our mismatched bushes and random almond tree were not the decisions of a herbologist or a designer. They were selected by me and my sisters. We had planted pieces of ourselves here, dug our roots into the soil to remain long after we were gone. It was ours, in a way our darkened house couldn't ever be.

You know what?

Let me tell you about my sisters.

The eldest was Bella, and she'd just turned eleven years old so she was leaving for Hogwarts soon. At this age, she was all skin and bones, with the sharp and defined features of our mother that you could distinguish even with the fat of youth clinging to her cheeks. Bella had curly thick hair that she kept up in a mockery of a ponytail, for all the good it did her. Her brown eyes were often glinting with something, whether it was an idea or mischief or pleasure, and she grinned from ear-to-ear every time I flung a piece of my food across the room.

One year younger than Bella was Andy. Andy looked a lot like Bella, so much that people easily mistook them for twins, but I could always tell the difference between them: for one, Andy's eyes were a lighter shade of brown, closer to fire-whiskey than Bella's varnished mahogany, and her hair was tamer - less wild and thick. Andy also had a dimple in her left cheek that only appeared when she was truly quieter. Besides the obvious physical differences, Andy was also quieter. Softer.

(... which isn't to say that Bella's rough, but…)

I looked more like Cissy, although my hair was curly where hers was straight and my nose was flatter, and I couldn't forget the dimples! Cissy probably stood out the most of all of us (what with her blonde hair and all). Her eyes, however, were a stormy grey typical of our family, and we shared the pointy chin and prominent cheekbones. We looked more like Father.

My sisters were beautiful. When they were younger, I sometimes imagined that I might love them without reserve.

But my sisters were more than what I made of them.

"Dora," Cissy wrinkled her nose at me as soon as I sat down. "I thought you were sleeping."

At this age, she still steals my hair ribbons and cuts the hem of my cloak so it is asymmetrical, so we are not good friends. I can't blame her. It was hard to, when I was the one spitting my food in her hair and dragging her stockings through the mud. She had reasonably grounds to wrinkle her nose up at me.

"I woke up." I told her, crawling into Bella's lap. I forced my sister to wrap her arms around my front, which she did easily enough, digging her chin unnecessarily hard into the crown of my head. "Hi, Andy."

Andy smiled before reaching over the table and wiping her hand down my face. There was no obvious motive for this behaviour, except that maybe she felt like it, which would be par for the course. I sputtered and knocked her hand away. She just laughed. "Hey there, sleepy. You've been out nearly the entire day!"

"I was tired!"

"All you ever do is sleep!" Said Cissy, pouting, "You don't do anything exciting!"

"Cissy's upset because you don't play with her anymore," Bella whispered, purposefully loud enough for everyone to hear. I giggled.

Truthfully, as soon as my memories came in, I'd found it difficult to entertain Cissy. For all that I wasn't afraid to laugh and fling food across the table and roll around in the mud, games that would entertain a toddler didn't seem to appeal to me anymore. Considering how many toys I had, I'd been feeling quite guilty about that. I felt as though it was a waste of money and pretended to enjoy my toys in front of my parents and sisters, but really, I had been slowly withering away from boredom. It was why I slept so much.

Cissy shot Bella a scathing look even as her face heated up. "I do not! Bella, shut up!"

"Make me."

Cissy huffed. She knew better than to leap across the table and start a fight. Bella always won. "Whatever," She muttered, crossing her arms petulantly. "Poopy face."

"You're the poopy face."

"I am not! You're the poopy face. Poopy face, poopy face, poopy face!"

Bella was eleven years old. That meant she was considered by most of the world as someone mentally, magically, and emotionally mature enough to go to Hogwarts and learn magic. As soon as September 1 came around, she would be expected to hold herself with a measure of dignity and no small amount of prissiness. As was expected from someone of her station.

However, it was decidedly _not_ the first of September — and while Bella was pretty mature for her age, there was something to be said about how many times one could sit and silently endure being called a 'poopy face' by an eight year old before something inside of them snapped.

I wasn't surprised to be pushed off her lap only seconds before she leaped across the table to grab at Cissy's hair. "You're the poopy head, poopy head! Shut up!"

Cissy, being Cissy, continued chanting, "Poopy head, poopy head, poopy head!" even as she shrieked in pain.

Andy was watching them with a laugh and threat to tattle stuck in her throat. She didn't look like she wanted them to keep on fighting. She didn't look like she wanted to physically pull Bella off Cissy either, though. It put her in a spot of trouble. Eventually, she made a decision.

"Bella, don't be such a tart."

It just so happened her decision was a combination of both choices.

Bella turned on Andy instantly, a fire in her eyes. It was not so surprising when she manoeuvred herself so that she could grab a fistful of Andy's hair as well. I watched them, unsurprised and worried but unwilling to risk my own hair. It didn't take long at all for Cissy's half-laugh half-protests to dissolve into one-hundred-percent pain. Andy's amusement to morphed into rage not too long after.

It was always like this with them. Cissy never knew when to shut up, Bella snapped and got violent, Andy jumped in and ended up getting herself hurt, and I was left to watch them scratch at each other.

Tensions were always high in this family, even when we were all at our most affable.

I was fond of my sisters, but I knew who they would all grow up to be. I was under no illusions about them.

I watched them fight passively and only opened my mouth to scream when Cissy began to cry.

.

* * *

.

… _Yeah_.

I'm a Black sister.

The youngest one, Callidora Lysandra Black III, to be precise: Sixth in line for the Regency of Black, fifteenth in line for the Rosier house, forty-seventh in line for the Crabbe house. My mother is Druella Rosier . She's a bit of a… handful. My father is Cygnus Black. He's rarely around, and that's probably for the best. I have three older sisters by the names of Bellatrix Druella, Andromeda Violetta, and Narcissa Carina.

I am a proud member of the Ancient and Noble House of Black.

I am a pure-blood.

I will live up to my family's prestigious name.

I will blah blah _blah_ –

You get the point.

There are expectations when you're a Black, which I'm sure comes as no surprise. When I was younger, I had tried protesting their behaviour. Naively tried my hand at rebellion and such, trying to appeal for the 'mudbloods' and 'half-breeds', but...

But, I...

I…

Well, let's just say that Mother hadn't liked it much when I did that. It didn't take me long to shut up after the personal lesson she gave me.

I'm a lot quieter about that these days.

Even before my memories came in, I knew that my parents weren't good parents. Druella is very obviously not a nice woman. From what I know of her — and trust me, I know _a lot_ about her — if I had to choose between being on the wrong side of her fists or a quick Avada Kedavra, I'd choose the green one.

Our house elves are our primary caretakers. A bulbous-nosed, elephant-eared, hideous-as-a-gargoyle house elf by the name of Kritter is a prominent figure. She's an angry one, all grouchy and patriotic. However, for all that she yells and snipes and snaps her tea towel at us, she hasn't actually hit me or my sisters. When I was young enough to need it, she used to tuck me in and sneak food in my room. She's certainly better than Mother.

My earliest memory is her face, you know. Seeing her profile set against the full moon coming in from my window. I had been petrified of werewolves that night after the lesson I was given on how savage they were. Kritter had kept me company until I'd fallen asleep out of pure exhaustion. She was still there when I woke up too – nodding off to sleep, yes, but vigilant at the end of my bed despite that.

Kritter's probably the closest thing I have to a real mum in this life. I'm quite protective over her, truthfully, and Bella knows the rules with Kritter. No one is allowed to hurt her now that I'm around.

Being a Black, it's hard to be a good person. It's sort of like everyone is working against you whenever you try. Every time I tried to stand taller someone would reach over and hammer me back into my place.

Muggleborns? Deserving a brutal, torturous death for simply existing. Werewolves? Savage, mindless brutes who would sooner ravage your corpse than sit for tea, silly girl. Vampires? What, _those_ blood-sucking leeches? Centaurs? Filthy half-breeds, just as bad as trolls and giants if you're asking me. Half-bloods? There is only one thing more disgusting than a wizard willingly consorting with non-magical filth, and it's that they have the right to reproduce.

If I hadn't been the abnormality that I am, I would have fallen to the prejudice a very long time ago. Even Andy, who is gentle and reads books about Herbology in the candlelight until the moon has replaced the sun in the sky, has not been able to escape the ideals. Every time she says that wretched M-word in casual conversation, I can't help but flinch. From Cissy and Bella I expect it. From Andy, it is an unpleasant shock every time it comes out of her mouth. Is that unfair of me to hold against her?

Perhaps it is.

Regardless, I find myself expecting better from Andy every time she perpetrates the prejudice. I think she feels that I disapprove.

While I stubbornly continue to treat muggleborns and magical creatures with the respect that they are due, I am careful to keep quiet around Mother with these views. If there is one thing that you learn in any pure-blood household, it is self-preservation. Eventually, you learn the difference between bravery and stupidity, and it isn't a lesson one particularly keens to revisit again. I, for one, will be happy to never go through it again. That is rather the point, I expect – the fear, that is. To be afraid of growing.

The thing with abusers is that they never want you to be better than them, because that's when they lose their control over you.

It'd be a lie to say that I am the same quiet introspective teenage girl. The teen with too much passionate pressing against her breast, who breathed compassion like it was air, is dead. She died a long time ago. As it is, it's too idealistic to hope for me to be that person again. It's unrealistic to hope for any sort of freely given kindness in any of the Black sisters. Most of the time, being aware of manipulation doesn't mean you can avoid it's effect.

Or maybe I'm as soft-spined as any other wretched pure-blood in this society.

At this point, I'm not the right sort of person to be worthy of judging the strength of someone's character.

.

* * *

.

Perhaps the most important thing for you to know about me is this:

I am a writer.

If there is one thing you ever need to know about _any_ writer, it is that they get to choose the angle in which you view them. Most choose the angle that shines them in the best light: the flattering light, the sympathetic light, the kindest light.

There's no point of me trying to pull that one over you. You know how the Black family can be and we've already established that I'm not the strongest person. My mind is weak – it's always been weak. I'm the type of person to cave in on themselves for the benefit of others. Would two wolves fight over my dying body, my main concern would be to whom I would offer the choicest meat. I am a prey animal, born afraid.

Throwing me in the middle of the Black family during the Dark Lord's glory days was the certain, crushing, inevitably defeat of my will. There has never been any doubt about it.

So I suppose the answer to your question is… complicated.

Do I love my family, even after all that they have done to me? Yes, certainly.

Why, you ask?

I'm not sure, to be honest. I can't explain it – some emotions and desires simply cannot be put into words that we will all understand. It's different for everyone. Why do we breathe air? Because we deserve to? Because we will die if we don't. Why do we bleed? Because sometimes it is the only thing for our body to do in the absence of every other option. Why do I continue to defend my sisters to the point of even my own destruction? Because I am deluding myself, and I know that I am deluding myself, but I cannot find the strength in me to stop.

… Well, I never said we were a pretty family, now did I? The Black's have a long-reaching history of mental instability. You should count yourself lucky that depression is the only chemical-imbalance in my brain that'll ever reach full maturity.

That disappoints you, right? That I'm not Light and that I'm not Dark? People like nice square boxes, after all. I don't like labels all that much myself, but I understand the obsession with them; how much easier on our minds it is, to see one side of a person and assume that infinitesimal part of them is all of them.

Never seen the appeal of that myself.

.

* * *

.

If I had to choose a favourite cousin, it'd be Evan. He was in his sixth year of Hogwarts and I didn't see him much. It's probably why I liked him so much. Never saw much of him in the first place to be honest, but I had blurry memories of him. To me, he always seemed like a boy with a sharp tongue who preferred books to people. Whenever I used to visit the Rosier house, he would put me in his lap and read to me.

Needless to say, Sirius had no interest in that.

However, in the absence of Evan, and with the survival instinct to avoid Hesper, I didn't really have a choice at this point. I sat next to Sirius during afternoon tea. It was an uncomfortably silent affair. Being the same age, we were often forced upon each other while they 'grown ups' discussed business. My sisters grouped together in another part of the house – usually very far away from Sirius – and as much as I wanted to join them, that left Sirius unattended.

(I don't know if you know this, but 'Sirius' and 'unattended' are _not_ words that you want in the same sentence.)

After the last time I abandoned him for Bella's company and he had savagely torn into our tea sets in retaliation, I'd been told to keep him company "or else".

So we sat and drank our tea.

Sirius observed me with blank grey eyes. His knee was jumping under the table. His eyes flickered around the room with enough speed to make me dizzy. If he hadn't already, he was obviously reaching the end of his patience. Silly boy. Had no head for subtlety at all.

"Do you wanna play?"

I picked up a biscuit. "No."

Sirius frowned. "Why not? I'm bored."

"I don't want to play with you."

That made him groan like I had grievously insulted him. "You never want to play with me. You're boring."

"Okay."

"Seriously! Boring!"

"That's not a nice thing to say about yourself, Sirius."

He paused, and it struck me that I might have been the first person to ever make a pun out of his name. He smiled like someone's stuck their thumbs in the corners of his mouth and pulled. It was kind of deranged, actually. "I get it," He said, "'Serious' and 'Sirius' are the same sounding. How did you figure that out, Dora?"

Instead of answering, I frowned at him. "Don't call me Dora."

"Dora."

"Stop calling me that."

"Dora."

"I said stop, Sirius."

"Boring Dora."

"I'm being serious now, st — "

"No, I'm Sirius!" Sirius jumped in. And then he started laughing. The attention span of children was never any less confusing, no matter how exposed to it you were. "Get it? Get it? Dora, do you get it?"

My lips pinched. "I told you to stop calling me that."

Sirius wrinkled his nose. "Bella and Cissy and 'Dromeda call you that."

"They're my sisters!"

"But I'm your cousin!"

"Exactly, so stop calling me Dora!"

"Then what am I supposed to call you? _Callidora_?" His tone communicated perfectly about how he felt about that option.

"Yes." I huffed. "That's my name. I bet you wouldn't like it if I called you 'Siri'."

Sirius tilted his head in careful deliberation. "It isn't a bad name," He declared gravely, slamming his hands on the table. "I'll let you call me that if I can keep calling you Dora!"

One of the reasons me and Sirius didn't get along was that he was too loud. He spoke over me all the time. I was also sure that he didn't like me as much as I didn't like him, so I was tempted to believe his infuriating behaviour was just to piss me off. That might have been giving him too much credit. Sirius in general grates on my nerves, purposefully or not.

Giving me a look that reminds me too much of Bella, he said, "Or would you prefer 'Cal' as a nickname?"

I choked on my tea at this. "NO." I didn't like being called 'Cal' even less than I like being called 'Dora', and Sirius knew it too. We'd been through this conversation too many times for him not to. "What is your problem? Just drop it! Callidora, call me Callidora!"

"You're too boring and crappy and dumb," Sirius said, sticking his tongue out, "You're better when you're not being an old lady. No offense. I'm going to call you 'Cal' until you stop being boring. And when you start being a little fun, I'll start calling you 'Dora'. You only get to have your full name back when you're cool!"

I let that sink in for a moment.

And then, because I had just as short a temper as any other Black in the family: "I hate you. You're my least favourite cousin."

Sirius pouted, then said, "You too, Cal. You too."

.

* * *

.

Living with the people I live with isn't exactly… _kind_ to ones psyche. I guess if you're listening this story looking for a saviour born twenty-one years early… then you're in the wrong place; I am no man of action. I am barely a man. I have no strength or battle talent or a head for tactics.

I would make a terrible hero.

But you know what?

I survive. That's what I do. I survive. Somehow, I always do.

And speaking from experience, I can tell you that having the ability to survive is better than being a brave fool.

At least when you're a survivor, you're alive to hate yourself. The dead don't have that privilege.

* * *

...

 _"_ _How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself._ _"_

...

* * *

.

Title: fish hooks in the corners of their mouths  
Category: Books » Harry Potter  
Author: deletrear  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Summary: "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]  
Dedication: To billy, who is very important always.

.

* * *

02.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _when my voice trembles_

* * *

.

Fun fact about myself that I didn't know until five minutes ago: As of two days ago, I was a betrothed girl.

Aunt Walburga settled the situation of breeding a few days ago, but the contracts had all been written up, finalized and signed by all of the regents involved, so I was only informed now. All of the sisters were at the same time; sitting together on one couch, thigh against thigh, knobbly knee against knobbly knee, as a father who barely involved himself in our life moulds it to his advantage.

Bellatrix and Andromeda took the news as was expected of us. Narcissa, however, was rather put out.

"Married?" She whined. "But I'm only nine, Father. I can't get married."

Also: _hello_ _, timeskip_. It's been a while. (Two years, to be exact.)

Cygnus adjusted the glasses perched on his nose. Grey eyes like my own glinted from behind the spectacles. I looked in his face and recognized myself in his chin, in his nose, in his crooked pinkie finger. Those were my slanted eyes. Those were my dimples. That was the pigment of my skin. The patronizing look he sent Narcissa for her question was one I had seen on Andromeda's face. This familiar stranger sprawled lazily on the couch like a king, smoking in his cashmere robes, was my father. There was no denying that.

And still, I searched for discrepancies.

"Not legally, no, but you might as well consider yourself sworn to your fiancée for all the freedom you'll have," Cygnus tapped his cigarette. The ashes fell into the crystal ashtray waiting beneath his hand. Narcissa looked confused. "It's done, Narcissa. Finished. There's nothing for you to do about it. Besides, you should be honoured."

"Honoured?" Said Narcissa. "Why?"

"The Malfoy's are a noble line. Their blood will bring much prestige and power to the future generation of Black children."

"Children?" Narcissa squawked, looking nauseous. "Father, I haven't even met him. How do I know if I love him if I haven't met him?"

Oh no, I thought.

Bellatrix must have been thinking it too, because she buried her elbow in Narcissa's ribs, flat brown eyes jumping to life with alarm. Her voice came out as a hiss. " _Cissy_!"

Narcissa looked harassed and affronted. She turned to Bellatrix and ducked her head, whispering a defensive, "What?"

Bellatrix sent a fearful glance in Cygnus' direction before saying to Narcissa, quieter and reproachful this time, "You mustn't – "

"I mustn't what?"

But it was already much too late.

Cygnus had straightened up from his sprawl, and now sat perched on the edge of the navy couch attentively. He breaced himself with his elbows on his knees, wrists hanging limply. The ember at the end of his cigarette ate away at the tobacco, sloth-like. There was no inflection on his face or in his voice when he asked, "Love?"

Narcissa opened her mouth to answer and was interrupted. Bellatrix had driven her elbow into her ribs again, her eyes locked on Cygnus. She scrambled to say. "She didn't mean anything by it, Father. She was just – "

"Quiet, Bellatrix. I'm talking to your sister." Cygnus said coolly. His voice was smooth and slippery. There was a hint of danger lurking beneath it. Bellatrix's mouth snapped shut. Turning back to Narcissa, Cygnus asked again: "Love? Explain that to me, if you please. I'm quite curious as to how you were introduced to the concept."

Narcissa hands clenched in the lace of her skirt. For a moment, she looked rightfully cautious, staring at Cygnus from under her lashes as if expecting a reprimand. When Cygnus smiled thinly and gestured with the hand not holding his cigarette, she blinked rapidly, cheeks ripening. "Well… there are books about it, aren't there, Father? In the library. About – about wizards who save witches from half-breeds and dragons and horrible curses with the power of – of true love."

"Is that so?"

"Uh-huh. Things like… true love's kiss, and… and happy endings at the end of the war. When the boy and girl marry at the end of the book, and everyone is happy and hopeful, and the bad guy always loses."

"Those kind of books are where you learned it?"

"Y... yes."

Cygnus hummed. "You like to read, do you?"

Narcissa shrugged. Andromeda was staring intently at her lap, sending short, unreadable looks at Narcissa from the corner of her eyes. Bellatrix had closed her eyes. I was the only one without an acceptable poker face. To hide the horror on my face, I tried to hide it by turning away from everyone, taking advantage of my position at the end of the sofa.

"I don't mind it when it's a good book." Said Cissy, enthusiasm growing.

"And what do you classify as a good book, hm? The ones where the underdog triumphs? Where dark and light struggle for dominance, and the light side wins? Stories of naïve, arrogant children who feel wronged by the ministry and fight for the collective 'good' of everyone?" Cygnus smiled at us. "Are those the type of stories you enjoy, Narcissa?"

"Yes, Father!" Narcissa said, relaxed and happy with this perceived mutual understanding. "I find them quite enjoyable!"

"What about Liesel Domnauer. Did you like her story?"

I tensed at the question. I had read the book 'Bunkers'. Everyone had. It was a very popular autobiography, after all. As far as I could tell, Liesel Domnauer was the wizarding equivalent of Anne Frank.

Domnauer was one of the many witches caught in Germany about twenty years ago during the war, forced to fend off attacks from muggles and wizards alike who hoping to drive her people to extinction for the circumstances of their blood and religion. She'd kept a diary during the event, wrote down everything that happened to her before, during and after the war. She spared no detail about her journey, was proud of her status as a survivor of prejudice, and remained an inspiration to a lot of people to this day.

Still, her renown wasn't gained without struggle. The book was barred from publication for years; no one was willing to put their names behind a book that named and slandered many of the Twenty Eight– even if we all knew what she was writing was true. Of course, once it managed to find an independent publishing company unafraid of the Twenty Eight, 'Bunkers' was flying from shelves. It was one of those books that everyone had but no one admitted to having. Unless you were a part of a pureblood house like I was. Then you weren't allowed to even think about the book, not even under the pain of death.

I had a copy under my mattress.

"Liesel Domnauer?" Narcissa stumbled over the name. "I've never heard of her, Father. Is she a book?" She turned to Andromeda, who flinched at the attention. "Andy? Do you know who she is?" Andromeda mutely shook her head. "Andy?"

"Why are you asking Andromeda?" Asked Cygnus.

"Because Andy is the one who reads to me all these stories." Said Cissy.

That put Andromeda in the spotlight, and we all knew it. Somehow managing to fold even more into herself, Andromeda looked as small as she ever had under Cygnus' gaze, a harmless and insignificant thing. "You read such drivel to your little sister, do you, Andromeda?" Andromeda didn't answer. Cygnus did not waste another moment – he lashed out with his free hand and brought it down on the table between us. Hard. It was an explosion in the silence. None of us flinched as hard as Andromeda did. "Andromeda?"

Andromeda wet her lips. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Breathed in. Nodded twice.

"What about Liesel Domnauer? Do you read that?"

Andromeda shook her head emphatically. I thought of the copy underneath my mattress, between the foam and the metal wiring of my frame, and then banished the thought. I tried to focus on the current conversation, but Cygnus was quiet, drawing out the tension. His grey eyes were unrelentingly intense on Andromeda's frozen form. He was waiting for something that we all knew Andromeda wouldn't give him. The expectation swelled in the space between us, heavy and foreboding. I made a conscious effort not to tune out, not to daydream, not to blink out of my body and focus on easier things like my mind was subconsciously trying to, but it was hard.

"I wish you would talk to me, Andromeda." Cygnus said.

Andromeda bowed her head.

That's it.

That _must_ be what sets him off.

I was not too certain myself, honestly, but her continued silence had to be the thing that pushed him over the line. Because there was no warning. There was just – a _twinge_ in the atmosphere around us, the type that makes your hair stand up; that made us think, _please, not again_ ; then there was a wand; and then a familiar looking curse thrown over our heads that collided with the wall at our backs.

We screamed as we threw ourselves to the floor.

I knew without looking that there was a black mark where Andromeda's head used to be – perhaps a centimetre or two above it – but I looked anyway, simply to confirm it. Simply to remind myself.

I had my cheek smashed against the carpet with the left side of Narcissa's torso pressing against my back with the weight of three. Narcissa's breath puffed against my ear. As usual, she had thrown herself on top of me. There was a hand resting on the back of my skull, pushing it down and away from Cygnus, leaving me to stare at his shoes. I knew those hands to be Andromeda's: she had thrown herself over Narcissa and I. Familiar arms bracketed the dog pile we had made of ourselves, acting as the shell that protected the underbelly.

Of course, Bellatrix had thrown herself over all of three of us.

 _Look at us_ , I thought dazedly, _like a little Russian doll_.

Cygnus sighed and removed his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose.

I swallowed to wet my parched mouth. It didn't help.

He placed his glasses back and leaned back in his chair. The ash at the end of his cigarette had grown heavy enough that it collapsed at the slightest twitch of his fingers. As we lay there, trembling and waiting, he took a long drag of his cigarette and blew his poison into the air. He stared up at the ceiling listlessly for a minute. It felt like an hour.

When he spoke, it was to blandly congratulate us. "Impressive reflexes."

Bellatrix was on her feet in an instant. There was a fire in her eyes, a hatred that burnt away at all common sense. "You could have hurt her!"

Narcissa squirmed. Andromeda got up and pulled us up with her so we were sitting, crouched, behind the coffee table, watching and waiting.

"I knew you'd dodge."

"I know that spell, it's a curse — you could have — could have hurt her — she's only twelve — "

Cygnus rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, Bella. None of you were even touched. Besides, you of all people know the benefits of the proper application of pain." He raised an eyebrow. "Flint tells me of your dealings in the castle, Bella. I know of your lessons. What makes this any different from those, I wonder?"

"It's different, we could have been – "

"But you weren't," Cygnus cut in sharply before visibly smoothing the sharp edges of his tone. "You weren't hurt, were you? _Were you_?" Bellatrix was silent, her face a twisted mess of complicated emotions.

At the sight of her, Cygnus sighed mournfully. He situated himself in front of Bellatrix and placed a warm hand on her head. "All I'm doing is reminding you which one of us makes the rules in this house and which one of us is meant to follow them."

Bellatrix still looked doubtful.

"Come, girls. It's not like I held you under the Cruciatus Curse." He spoke softly, and kindly, and Bellatrix's face twitched.

There was a moment that passes in which all four of us were thinking about it — that terrible never ending pain. My bones were not aching in this instant. There were no phantom blades flaying my flesh, no white hot fire pokers or imaginary flames licking at my psyche. My skin was unmarred. My throat was wet and not raw from screaming. I was healthy. I looked at Andromeda: she was unblemished, save for the tear tracks drying on her face.

 _We are lucky_.

There was a heavy silence as we all stewed in our shame.

"I'm exhausted now, thanks to you girls. Your mad ramblings have drained me of all my energy: all your talk of true love and that forsaken book." Here, Narcissa and Andromeda winced.

Cygnus continued grandly. "As if the negotiations of marriage contracts weren't enough, you then had to go and make me mad, force my hand, and then act like I'm evil for it. Other people would call that ungrateful. After all, I do feed you, clothe you, put a roof over your head…" He trailed off at our faces — Narcissa, at least, was tearing up, while Andromeda looks completely and utterly ashamed of herself.

Cygnus sighed again. He opened his arms benevolently. Without wasting another second, we fell into him gratefully. After a long moment during which we all soaked in his warmth and he comforted us with his mere presence, he eventually whispered, "Do not think that I don't understand your behaviour. An arranged marriage can be difficult to understand at your age, I know it took me a long time to come to terms with my marriage to your mother... Do you not think this is hard for me as well?"

"What do you mean?" I said into his shirt. "How is this hard for you?"

"It's hard," he stroke my head, "because my own children don't trust that I have the best interests for this family in mind. It's hard because my own children do not even trust their father. It hurts me. Do you even love me, I wonder?"

Andromeda twitched. Bellatrix reared back to look at our father's face, her own jaw agape. "Of course we love you, Father!"

"Then why do you insist on rebelling?"

"We don't – "

"We don't mean to, it's just – "

"I'm sorry for hurting your feelings, Father. I'll never do it again, I promise, so please don't be mad anymore – "

"We'll listen! We know now!"

"We love you! Lots and lots and lots —"

Cygnus released us from our group hug and raised his hands, "Now, now, that's enough, girls. You're getting to be too rowdy, it's giving me a headache." We all shut up instantly, staring up at him attentively. There was a slow curving starting at the corners of his lips, satisfied and swelling, that he covered with a cough. "So you'll stop questioning me, is that what you're saying? There are tough times ahead… challengers, resistances, the rise of lords approaching… I will need your obedience."

"We won't do it again," Bellatrix swore, "Forgive me for forgetting my place today, Father. We're on your side. Of course we are, all of us. I'm sorry my actions today made you doubt that."

"And me," Said Narcissa.

"And me," Andromeda whispered.

Cygnus nodded and raised his hand again. I didn't know whether he would stroke my hair or strike me, and tensed in waiting, but all he did was bring his nub of a cigarette to his lips and suck in whatever was left of the tobacco. "I suppose I understand. You will inevitably anger me again but… for now… I love you, girls."

And although in this instant we all parroted back, "I love you more!" to our father, later –

later

Later, I would look back on this conversation, and my heart clenched painfully, like two strings of a coin purse pulled tight, and I would remember: the shame, the fear, the black mark on the wall.

I would remember, and I _hated_ him.

(And it will be futile because I never remembered to hate him when I am sat in front of him. The cycle began again.)

.

* * *

.

I was intended to marry one of the Carrow kids. Don't ask me what one, I don't even remember. I'm sure I mentioned it above – the way I tend to daydream when my parents discuss serious business with me. I'm sure my fiancée's name doesn't matter. Regardless of it, he's sure to be as boorish, self-involved and arrogant as I believe him to be.

Don't think me _unkind_ , now. You don't know pure-blood politics like I do. I know the roots of the Carrow family. I have sat at their table and feasted on their freely given meats and herbs beside Amycus, I have danced in their gardens under the moonlight with Alecto, painted proof of my existence over their walls in crayon. I know the Carrow family in ways you will never, _could_ never, and I have a unique perspective into the way that they raise their children.

…

… Huh?

…

Well, okay then, if that's what you want to hear. It's nothing grand or romantic, so I'm not sure what you're fishing for but since you asked nicely, it'd be rude if I refused you.

I'll tell you how we met. …Though the person I met that day who would go on to impact my life wasn't my betrothed. I have to warn you of that. If you're looking for an epic romance that began that day in autumn, you're not going to find it.

Instead, you'll learn how I, Callidora Black III, met Pandora Travers.

.

* * *

.

The first time I ever saw the boy I was to marry, it's nothing memorable.

Sirius lowered his arm from when he pointed the boy out and harrumphs. "There he is — Archeron Carrow. Nothing special, yeah?" My cousin confided, unknowingly telling me what I was already thinking, whispering to me as if we were friends. I barely tolerated his shoulder pressed against mine. "Bit mental, of course, but all of the Carrow's are. You're lucky he's the one you're stuck with."

I sent him a sidelong glance. "I'm lucky?"

"Not as lucky as _me_ ," Sirius — who is not shouldering a betrothal contract as of yet — presses a modest hand to his chest, grinning proudly. "But whatever. You wanted to see him. You saw him. I'm going to hang out with Longbottom."

"Leave Frank alone." I said without much heat. "He doesn't need you slobbering on him on his own birthday."

"Heirs need to stick together, it's the golden rule. I'll be seeing you later."

"Will you?"

"For dinner. Mother has somehow managed to convince Uncle Alphard and Uncle Cygnus that the family needs to come together tonight. My place. It'll be a feast fit for the Minister himself. We'll have the heads watching over us and everything."

I sighed. "The joys of family."

Sirius clicked his tongue and flicked my ponytail. "Well... I'm off." He said, walking away without another word. I harrumph in reply and go back to my mournful staring at Acheron Carrow.

I didn't like him.

Acheron Carrow was a terror, that much was already obvious, even from a distance, but we already knew that going in, didn't we?

From where I was sitting when I first laid my eyes on him, he was crouched next to his brother pouring a jug over an ant hill beneath a dying tree; a leaf fell and spiralled downwards from its branch, landed on his head. He was going to grow up to be an ugly adult. I wasn't excited.

Fortunately, I also wasn't allowed the opportunity to dwell on the thoughts for very long. Suddenly, there was a hand wrapping around my elbow that snagged my attention. I subconsciously catalogued her grip – deferring and uncertain. Her fingers flexed constantly around my arm. Nothing at all like my family's confident, almost abrasive, grip. I knew then that I was not related to whoever was touching me. A guest of Longbottom's, I assumed. Perhaps a curious half-blood?

When I turned to address the girl, I was met with green-grey eyes that, to this day, remain singularly unique. The girl had platinum blond hair slicked back into a fancy bun. She was either my age or a year older, and was outfitted with a pointy nose and chin, with thin lips and prominent cheekbones to top it off. Her facial structure was a familiar one, but I couldn't put a name to her face at all.

She seemed like a soft person, was my first impression. A half-blood, I decided, or the daughter of a disowned pureblood.

And then she spoke, and I tasted stars in the back of my throat.

"Hello," She greeted softly, silvery and mystical. "You've been staring at nothing for quite a while now. Are you alright?"

I blinked at the question, still caught on the musical cadence of her voice. Why did _I_ sound like that? "What?"

"You've been daydreaming," The girl said, before following my line of sight. She saw Acheron and his brother chortling over the drowning ants and crinkles her pale eyebrows. "Or _not_. You're freaking out some of the others a bit. Are you okay?"

I got myself under control and cleared my throat. I refused to be embarrassed. It wasn't like anyone would remember my daydreaming by the end of the party. A child's attention span wasn't anything impressive. Still, with the girl's concerned attention on me, I wanted nothing more than for the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

"I'm fine." I told her, voice just as quiet as her own. Her fingers were twitching again. I didn't know if it was because she was restless, bored, or concerned. Her face was unreadable. It made me rethink my position on her blood status. "Lost in my thoughts. Sorry for the concern…?"

Her green-grey eyes twinkled a bit. "We've met."

Ah.

"I'm Pandora Travers," She said, sticking her hand out. I was momentarily appalled with her manners. As a Black, the only pureblood allowed to introduce themselves before me was either Sirius or Regulus. Hierarchy, you know? But the girl—Pandora—didn't seem to care about that at all. I let out a startled laugh. "Daughter of Endymion and Selene Travers née Malfoy. Lord Travers is my granddad. Lord Malfoy is my grand…uncle?" She shrugged. "Merry met!"

"Callidora Black the Third, youngest child of Cygnus Black and Druella Black née Rosier, niece to the honorable Lord and Lady Black, proud member of the Ancient and Noble House of Black. Merry meet." I said dully, mechanically, following quickly with: "Did… did you say Lord Abraxas Malfoy?"

Pandora grinned. "Yup! I'm not the heir — that's Lucius, he's my cousin— but me and Grandfather are friends. Have you met him?"

"I have been acquainted with Lord Malfoy. He's an intimidating character, to be sure." Lucius Malfoy's _cousin_?

"No, he's really not." Pandora seemed bemused. "It's nice that you're saying so, but there's no need for lying when it is just the two of us. My Lord is a boring old man. Everyone knows it."

Grandniece, did she say? Did that mean… her grandfather was Abraxas Malfoy's brother? Younger, obviously, otherwise he or his spawn would be occupying the position as paterfamilias for the Malfoy's. So Lucius' cousin, maybe-Draco's maybe-Aunt who was never mentioned in the series. Did that mean she and Lucius were not close, or that they grew apart during the war? Was this a character who died? Or were Rowling's tales not as accurate as I believed them to be?

 _That_ was a frightening concept.

"You do not need to be in your prime to strike a respectable figure. I can see that you don't much care for the posturing though. I'll speak plainly if you prefer."

"That would be nice, sure. You're using a lot of big words that I haven't heard from Mother." She'd hitched her eyebrows into her hairline again. "I've lost you."

"Hm?"

"You're daydreaming again. I can see it in your eyes. Am I annoying you?" She followed my gaze, not realizing that my interest was completely inward. "... Do you fancy one of the Carrow brothers? You haven't taken your eyes off the little one."

"We are betrothed."

"Yeah? To Acheron?" I nodded, thinking about the family tree. Am I talking to a little girl doomed to die, I wonder? Is there any way for me to tell? "Apparently, he's gonna be real pretty when he's older. My granduncle told me so."

I shrugged. "That's nice, I suppose. I don't care much for looks."

"Well, if you want a nice husband, you should look somewhere else, too. Acheron is a mean boy. So is his brother, Hector."

"All of the Carrow's are," I reminded her. "This doesn't particularly surprise me."

Pandora giggled. I realized she has not removed her hand from my elbow. "I didn't think someone from a house like yours would say things like that," She confided her amusement with me, eyes sparkling. "How odd."

"Don't tell anyone of my oddness." I said, almost amused just because she was.

"Oh, no, no, of course not! I like oddness myself, you see, so I won't dob you in. Be as queer as you like!" My mouth twitched. Pandora's enthusiasm grew in response, "Oddness is what makes things fun! If we aren't a bit off then our minds get slow and bad. Oddity is good! It keeps us alive, didn't you know?"

Her eagerness was surprisingly endearing. "Like mutating to avoid natural selection," I mused.

Pandora blinked. "Huh?" Before I could think of a way to explain myself, she smiled and shook her head. "No, it's okay. I don't mind not getting it. Oddities!"

I had to ask. "What house do you think you'll be in when it comes to Hogwarts, Pandora?"

Pandora didn't hesitate. "Ravenclaw, for sure."

I hummed. "I can see that," I told her, and I wasn't not lying.

It _was_ easy to imagine Pandora in black robes with bronze-blue hems and ties. She'd wear her oddities and uniform proudly, flaunt her eccentricities without an ounce of guilt, with her straggly blonde hair tied back with her own wand; just herself being herself in the silence of the castle. Perhaps she would be a sleepwalker, with a mind that never rested? I couldn't see Pandora as a typical quiet, studious guardian of knowledge. A child of the stars, yes; bare-footed, walking through the forest in winter, with her wand twisting her hair in a knot and her radish earrings catching the dim light shining through the canopy of the for—

 _Wait,_ _radish_ _earrings—?_

I blinked at Pandora. Her earrings weren't pierced at all. So where did that thought some from?

Pandora peers at me and hums lowly. "You get lost inside your own head quite a bit don't you, Callidora?" She mumbles. "Oh, oh! I've got your attention now, haven't I? I'm sorry for speaking. I can see the thought growing smaller in your eyes."

Why does that…

"It's nothing," I murmured to Pandora. "Tired, 's all. Forgive my rudeness."

"It's fine," She smiled. "I think I've found a friend in you, Callidora. If... you don't mind me saying, of course."

… so familiar… what is it about her that seems so—

"You're nice." I told her, almost sounding accusing. "And I'm not sure _why_ but I'll figure it out."

Pandora blinked. I still could not pin down what was so familiar about her and her behaviour, but I was prepared to stew in it until I figured it out. Her smile grew, almost bashful. "Okay." She used the hand still wrapped around my elbow to pull me towards the banquet table. "Do you like chocolate frogs, Cal? Can I call you Cal?"

In response to her question, I replied, "I love them."

Pandora grinned toothily. "I think we'll do just fine together, Callidora!"

.

* * *

.

… Yeah. Pandora Travers slipped under my skin like a splinter and refused to leave after that. Fine by me, we take to each other like we were always meant to be friends. It's an easy relationship. Besides, she's not even the weirdest part of my summer holiday that year.

No, that would be Iola.

(And by weirdest I mean, of course, 'distressing' and 'life-changing' and 'ohshitwe'regonnadie'.

All the fun stuff.)

.

* * *

.

I was messing around in the garden when the owl from Uncle Alphard arrived. Hesper trotted into the greenhouse where I laboured away and unceremoniously emptied a potted plant over my head.

Yeah. Really.

"Lady Black calls for the children in the main room, Callidora. Better clean yourself." She announced, before turning on her heel and trotting back out.

I watched her go as I combed the damp soil from my hair. "Just because she's going to Hogwarts now…" I grumbled to myself, brushing myself off. There was soil stuck underneath my fingernails and I stank like dirt. I'd have to freshen up quickly if I wanted to present myself to Aunt Walburga.

Unfortunately, I passed Sirius on my way to the bathroom. He wrinkled his nose at me and yanked on my robes when I flew past him, pulling me back in front of him. I scowled even harder. Sirius hardly made me any more amiable. Neither did he make up for it. It was all annoyance and no reward. "Cal! You're looking ripe."

"Don't call me that. And also: was that a poor attempt at a Herbology joke?"

"Poor, was it? I know you want to laugh."

"At you, perhaps. Never with you."

"Ouch." Sirius plucked a clump of soil from my hair. "What's with you and the garden lately? Only Hufflepuffs need that rubbish. _Unless_ …"

"Don't even start." I shoved him, cutting off the sure to be dramatic diatribe he was about to indulge himself with. "I like gardening. It's relaxing."

"It's servant work."

"It's relaxing."

"What, are the gnomes your only friends?" Sirius sneered. I considered sneering back. Thankfully, I restrained the urge. "You could at least get into sewing like Aunt Druella's been wanting you to while you're indulging this bizarre phase of yours. I wouldn't mind a new quilt to sit at the end of my bed — I swear, Kreacher did something to the one I have now."

"Kreacher did?"

"Hideous thing hates me. Can't imagine why." Sirius flicked his hair back. I was amused despite myself. "He's made it scratchier, I tell you."

"Or maybe you're just a paranoid weirdo?" I suggested, before shrugging. "Ask me if I care."

"I would, but I don't wanna know. Buuuuut… there is a question I wouldn't mind you answering since you're taking them and all. Why are you working in the gardens lately?" He cut me off when I opened my mouth. "And don't say that it's 'relaxing' or whatever it is you're citing these days. I know you're lying."

"You do, do you."

"I do. You've never relaxed a day in your life — I doubt a sweet flower bush is going to get the job done."

"So since I don't fit into your limited perception of me there has to be an ulterior motive for my favourite hobby apart from the fact that I simply like to garden, right?"

Sirius nodded. "Yes." He said, as though saying _'_ _duh_ _'_. Humility, as always, did not become him. "You can tell me. I won't nark." He wouldn't, it's true, but the principal of the matter was that I couldn't trust a thing Sirius says because most of it was sure to be a bald faced lie.

"There's nothing to tell," I reassured him, before pointedly swiping some dirt from my robes. "I really need to go and freshen up. Can I pass?"

Sirius pursed his lips but releases my sleeve. "I'll get you to squawk eventually." He promised.

I bowed, low and mocking, and said, "Of course, Lord Black." Sirius looked as though he's swallowed a lemon. "Or would you prefer Siri, My Lord?"

"Tart. Clean yourself up. Make it quick. You know Mother doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Thanks for the permission, my Lord," I smiled thinly and set off. Luckily, cleaning up wasn't hard with the assistance of the House Elves, and I arrived in the main room at the same time as Regulus, who seemed to be cutting his arrival uncharacteristically late.

The room was filled with my first cousins: Hesper, Evan, Sirius, Mandel, Patricia and Regulus. My sisters were spread out between my cousins. Bellatrix favoured the company of Patsy and Evan, being the closest in age with them. Andromeda sat beside Mandel, quietly responding to his questions about Hogwarts. Narcissa was sitting between Hesper and Sirius, her eyes dead and her lips thin. When she saw me enter, she sent me a pleading glance.

I squeezed myself between her and Sirius, who Narcissa barely tolerated on a good day.

Sirius took a long, deliberate inhale through his nose. "You made it. Feeling fresh?"

"So very fresh," I said, rather flatly. I turned to Narcissa. "Do you know what we're here for?"

"Does it matter? Lady Black calls on us. We answer." Hesper said.

I made a confused sound. "Huh… that's funny. I don't remember asking you, Hesper. How about you keep that bulbous nose of yours out of my private conversations, yes?" She flushed angrily and opened her mouth to perhaps burp the alphabet when Narcissa smiled, clapped her hands together, and beckoned over Regulus.

"Would you like to sit here, Regulus?" Narcissa asked. She grabbed Hesper's hand and stood without waiting for a reply. "Of course, I'd be happy to offer up my seat. Come, Hesper, I think Evan requires us on that side of the room. Very far away from here." And then she left.

"I love Cissy," I said to no one in particular.

"She's alright," Sirius shrugged. He smiled warmly at his brother and shifted over to clear a space between me and him. This, of course, gave him to opportunity to shove me nearly over the arm of the couch, which he was very much aware of, I'm sure. He patted the couch. "Sit down, Reg. No use standing there."

Regulus sat. "Do you know what this is about?" I asked him.

"Maybe," Regulus mused. "Uncle Alphard sent an owl with news about the vacation house in the states. Do you know which one?"

"The safe house in Boston that no one likes to talk about because a blood-traitor set up camp there in the 1870s? Never heard of it."

"Look," Sirius said mildly. "She knows jokes now."

Ignoring our byplay, Regulus continued. "I think we're going to visit the house in America."

"Really?" Sirius pulled a face. "We're visiting the yanks? I thought we had that fancy dinner party to attend."

"We do, but only for the night. Mother says its, "adult business". That's all she said. The house is empty, Siri. No 'yanks'. Anyone who lived there is dead now."

"Oh. Still. Yanks, you know?"

"Yes, I know."

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. "Boston, huh? I hate the states. Have I mentioned that?"

"No," Sirius replied, sounding unconcerned. "We don't care."

"I kind of care," Regulus kindly assured me. "Why do you hate the states?"

"Do you know who Donald Trump is, Reg?" He shook his head. I smiled and patted his hand. "You're lucky."

Anything else we have to say was interrupted by the arrival of Aunt Walburga.

.

* * *

.

This point of my life is what I like to call, _The Beginning of My Very Slow And (In Hindsight) Inevitable Psychotic Break._

.

* * *

.

The Boston Black house was very interesting indeed.

Naturally, the house itself wasn't anything special – 1870s, Victorian flavour in the staircases and foundations, slightly revamped to fit our delicate 1960 sensibilities — but the story behind it... as a writer, I could appreciate that much.

Plus, there weren't heads mounted on the walls of that house, which I personally found quite tasteful.

On the first day, the only Black children – because that's what the kids were there for, to hide away in Boston while the adults discussed 'business' – in the home were myself, my sisters (Bellatrix would be leaving soon, of course, but for now she was a chaperone until Uncle Alphard was free), Evan and Mandel. Sirius, Regulus, Patricia and Hesper were fulfilling their duties back home before the younger ones would come to us in Boston.

I had no idea what their 'duties' entail, or why every Black kid over thirteen was staying home when the manor would be flooded with pure-bloods, so don't ask. That's just how it was.

"This is it," Evan = said as we landed in the lawn of the house, the portkey dumping us unceremoniously on the cobblestone. "Settle them in, would you, Bellatrix? I must attend to some duties for Lady Black."

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. "Duties?"

"You know how it is." He said airily. "Brother, you're with me."

Mandel furrowed his eyebrows and shot a glance at Andromeda. "I can't stay with the girls?"

"I need you for something." Said Evan, "I want to introduce you to someone."

"Who?"

"You'll see." Evan said enigmatically. He took Mandel's hand and smiled at Bellatrix. "Prepare the house with haste, Bellatrix. We have only a day before Alphard arrives."

"I know my duties. Worry about yourself, Rosier." Bellatrix said snidely before turning her head away dismissively. Addressing us, her tone didn't warm as it usually would, "Come." She stormed towards the door without another word. Andromeda looked concerned and lingered only to pat Mandel's head before she dogged our older sister's heels. Narcissa and I had exchanged a glance before following.

Evan's Apparition snatched him away from the property.

I asked, "Bella, what's going on?"

Bellatrix said, "Later, Dora."

Except there hadn't quite been a later. We entered the home, keyed ourselves and our family into the base wards and activated the defences. Everything inside was outdated, dusty, or simply ugly. Andromeda wrinkled her nose. "The House Elves truly cannot make the journey here?"

Bellatrix looked similarly disgusted. "The manor is hosting a grand party for pure-bloods loyal to the true ways," She said, sounding more like a hiss than anything. "Lady Black cannot spare even a single creature."

"I can't believe we're doing servants work…" Narcissa muttered. "I feel filthy."

"You're not," Bellatrix assured us all. She pulled out her wand.

"What are you doing?" Andromeda squawked, surging forward. "You mustn't, Bella, you still have the trace on your wand."

Bellatrix stared at her dully. "So what?"

"So wha—that means you'll bring the MACUSA down on our heads! We don't have anyone over the age of minority in the estate at the present moment, they'll have to send a warning."

Bellatrix snarled in annoyance but pocketed her wand. "Then what are we supposed to do about this ghastly mess? If we're to have guests tonight, the estate can't look like this. It would leave a nasty impression on our… friend." Andromeda and Narcissa looked at a loss for solutions. I waited for one of them to say the obvious, but the idea hadn't appeared to cross any of their minds.

As the silence stretched, I cleared my throat. Once I had their attention, I pointedly rolled up my sleeves and said, "One way or another, that offensive dresser will be removed from my sight."

Bellatrix looked repulsed. "You would have us move it with our arms?"

"We could use the workout."

"It is demeaning, belittling, and I won't disgrace the Black family name by partaking in this unsophisticated physical labour! I am above it!" Bellatrix had squawked. She'd always been loud, but she'd been shrikier as of late. I'd gotten the idea that someone was encouraging her yelling at Hogwarts.

Andromeda rubbed her hair. Looking distinctly harassed, she peered at Bellatrix and asked, "How important is our… guest, dear sister?"

That stopped Bellatrix in her tracks.

Ten minutes later, that's how she found us: sweating, dragging her precious valuables over the house, ransacking her drawers and admiring the jewellery we find. In fact, for accuracy's sake, I should tell you that when she found us, Bellatrix was cooing over some pearls while Narcissa modelled a stunning pair of sapphire earrings.

 _"_ _Who are_ _you!? Thieves! Scoundrels!_ _"_

At the impressive howl, all four of us whipped around, Andromeda and Bellatrix arming themselves instantly. Narcissa put me behind her. I let her because it was the safest place for me, though I carefully tiptoe to peer over her shoulders. Bellatrix looked fierce with her wand at the nose of the woman who had screamed, baring her teeth as if they were bloody.

That's when we noticed what she was

For a moment, Bellatrix was simply too startled to react.

The woman asked, "What are you doing in my home?"

"Your home?" Bellatrix sniffed, still seeming kind of flat-footed.

"Yes, my _home_. It is the place that I live. Now explain yourselves, rogues: do you intend to rob me of my valuables?"

Derisively, Bellatrix sneered, "What valuables? That dreadful wardrobe over there? What would I do with it, feed it to my domesticated termites? Shall I steal mould from the walls and take it back to show to all of my friends? Perhaps I should steal those pearls from your neck and sell them to the Bloody Baron!"

"Bella," Andromeda sounded startled. She lowered her wand. "I—we're terribly sorry, madam, we didn't realize this place was occupied by one of the dead. Our Uncle Alphard made no mention of you."

... A ghost.

The woman was a _ghost_ , transparent and emitting an aura of death and longing. She drifted in mid-air, feet nothing more than a concentrated area of smoke: a young woman with curly hair twisted into an elaborate up-do. She wore pearl earrings that matched the string of pearls around her throat. Her day dress looked expensive, with a high collar and a full skirt in the rear, and her underskirt (heavily trimmed with ruffles and pleats) trailed behind her, floating in mid-air as she did.

A beautiful woman, certainly, but with a grating voice just like Druella's. It was a point against her.

Yeah… our Boston vacation home was haunted. _That_ just happened.

"Dead? I am not dead, you foolish little girl." The woman snapped. "You may call me Madam Iola or you can call me nothing at all!"

"Not dead?"

"Not dead."

Bellatrix peered suspiciously. "That does not make sense. Of course you're dead. My wand is poking through your chest." And indeed, her wand was.

Iola floated back enough that the wand conveniently wasn't poking her and looked down. She frowned. "I can see that it is not, little girl. Enough with your twisted words, I will listen no more to your lies." The offense on Bellatrix's face normally would have had her spitting mad and sending spells across the room. Bit redundant, that, against a ghost.

"We're not lying?" Andromeda said, before huffing and saying again, more confident this time, "We're not lying. Why would we lie about you being a ghost?"

"A ghost? Me? You must be mistaken. I am no more a ghost than you four girls are helpful citizens who contribute to the community!"

"How _dare_ you, you _filthy_ —" Bellatrix began, eyes flashing, before visibly reeling herself in. She breathed heavily through her teeth. "I will not argue honor with the echo of a filthy peasant long since departed from this world. Andy! Come, you will deal with this dead thing."

Andromeda hesitantly said, "Bella, I'm not—" I thought she might be intending to say, _Bella, I am not very good at diplomatic missions_ , which would be the God honest truth, except she was interrupted before she can finish. By Iola, naturally.

"I am certainly not dead!" Iola said, aghast. She fanned herself with her hands. "This is such a dreadfully confusing situation. I'm feeling very distressed right now!" Bellatrix, Andromeda, Narcissa and I shared a long, dubious look between each other. "Is it getting warmer in here or is that just me?"

…?

"Buuuut… I thought ghosts couldn't feel temperature?" Narcissa tilted her head.

Iola narrowed her eyes. "So? I am not dead so those rules don't apply to me."

Narcissa was baffled. "W-what? Don't be a fool, of course you are! What manner of trickery is this? Andy? Bella?"

"I've… I've no clue." Andromeda looked to Bellatrix for guidance, but Bellatrix was much too occupied with finding her happy place to be of assistance. "I've never encountered a ghost who doesn't believe that they're dead. I didn't know ghosts could delude themselves."

"I thought the dead couldn't lie, not even to themselves." I murmured.

Andromeda nodded. "Yes, I thought so too, but…"

"Do not talk about me as if I am not present before you, worms," Iola said easily and mildly, frowning at Andromeda in particular. "If you are not here to rob me of my jewels, explain your presence in my abode. What do you want?"

"What do we want? Shouldn't we be asking you that?" I said. Iola huffed delicately, glaring at me. " _What_?"

"Dora, really— " Andromeda began, sounding half-distracted.

"Dora? Your name is Dora?" Iola interjected, peering at me closely. She looked vindictive for a minute. "I hope you're not like the Dora _I_ know."

"What Dora do _you_ know?"

"My sister, of course," Iola said primly. "Elladora!" That name certainly sounded familiar. Bellatrix's eyes go glassy in thought. I was sure she was mentally rifling through our history lessons to figure out where the name lands on the family tree. Still, as familiar as the name Elladora was, I had never heard of an Iola Black. I considered bringing it up, but Bellatrix must already be wary of that herself.

Narcissa tossed her hair back like a mare. "Elladora? Elladora Black, I suppose?" When Iola nodded, Narcissa put on her best sneer and enthusiastically said, tone like a triumphant _aha!_ : "There is no Elladora Black _alive_ ; that has to mean that she's _dead_!"

"Outstanding conclusion, however did you reach it?" Said Bellatrix absently, still deep in thought.

Iola and Narcissa began sniping at each other without further ado. I was largely content to watch, but Andromeda wasn't, because Andromeda never was. She raised her hands passively and stepped out in front of Narcissa, drawing the spirit's attention. She then attempted to, I don't know, diffuse the tension in the room, perhaps? I'm not sure. It was likely intended to be some impressive diplomatic move that she learned from Aunt Cassiopeia. Unfortunately, Andromeda is quite rubbish at politics, so.

"Oh, you have to be a ghost. There's no other explanation." Iola stared at Andromeda. Actually, we all did — not because we doubted her, but because it's so obvious that we were a bit lost as to why she was saying it aloud.

"Andy," I said. "Stop yourself while you can."

Andromeda didn't stop herself. Black's are naturally allergic to cooperation, so I couldn't say I was surprised.

"It's pretty apparent, isn't it? You seem to be from the Victorian era as well, judging by your skirt. I'm sure I've seen an 'Iola Black' on the family tree as well." Iola trembled like she was about to explode with rage. Andromeda didn't appear to notice – fair enough, body language was different on ghosts. "I am truly sorry for your passing, Madam. It must have been — "

"I'm not dead!" Iola shrieked, cutting Andromeda off before surging away as if Andromeda's mere presence repulsed her. Unfortunately that put her closer to Narcissa and I, but Andromeda looks quite offended, so it's worth it. Andromeda pouted at the smirking Bellatrix.

" _Why_ are we even talking to the dead woman?" I asked the ceiling. It had no answers for me. I was nudged by one of my sisters, Merlin knows which one, and looked down. Iola looked displeased with me. To put it mildly.

"Hey, rascal!" She was looking at me. I put my hand on my collarbone in question to be a dickhead anyway. "Yes, I'm talking to you, girl. Stop saying I am dead, I am most certainly not!" It's a wonder she didn't notice that her arms were crossing _into_ each other, as opposed to crossing _over_ each other. "I will thank you to cease such nonsense immediately!"

"Terribly sorry, is 'dead' not the right term? What would you prefer?" I spread my hands out. "Living challenged? Mortally impaired?"

Andromeda drummed her fingers on her chin. "Wouldn't it be 'mortality impaired', if it had to be anything at all?"

"Yes, a valuable input, Andy, well done."

Narcissa looked between Andromeda and Iola before raising her hand. "I think you're dead, too." Said Narcissa without waiting to be called on.

"That is because you have the face of a warthog."

I couldn't help myself. I snorted. Narcissa sent me a filthy look. "I though Victorian pure-blood's had more decorum than this," I said. "Also, you're transparent, floating, and wearing outdated clothes. You're definitely a ghost."

If she had blood, it would have rushed to her cheeks. Whipping around, Iola thrust her finger in my chest – ew – and roared, "You are heinous-looking, too, little girl!" I knew my offense must show on my face, because Bellatrix makes a high-pitched sound like she was trying not to lose it. I couldn't believe it — why was I called 'heinous-faced' while Narcissa gets a simple 'warthog?

I squared my shoulders and turned away from everyone, face burning. "Whatever." I scoffed, kicking up my robes as I stomped away into the next room. I resolved to return to the peanut gallery when I wasn't contemplating snatching Bellatrix's wand and sending a curse at the ghost.

Distantly, I heard Andromeda gently scold, "Now look what you've done. You've upset the baby of the family."

.

* * *

.

After an undetermined time later, Narcissa entered the room I was currently squatting in. "Dora," She mumbled in surprise, before sighing and taking a seat beside me. I guess she hadn't watched to see where I stormed off to when I stormed off.

"Did she insult you again?"

"Yes. I don't like her." She answered, lips pursed.

"That's actually fairly evident."

"Do you think we should call an exorcist?"

"That's not our decision to make," I pouted. "Evan is the only one with the authority."

Narcissa sighed but nodded her head. "I had thought as much myself," She muttered. She turned to me and watched me watch the clouds move across the sky from the window. "Have you figured out why we're here yet, dear sister?"

I shot her a look. "No. Bella hasn't informed me of anything. Do you know?"

"I have my suspicions." Narcissa said, frowning at me. "There are whispers… have you not heard them?"

"What are you talking about?"

Narcissa made a _'_ _ch'_ sound and shook her head sharply. She looked almost… disappointed with me. "Perhaps it is better to leave you in your ignorance," She spoke to herself, shifting so that she could stare out the window as well. It was a brown-stained one but transparent enough that we could see geese flying overhead in the distance, dark shapes streaking across the sky. "Do you not wonder about Bella?"

I blinked, the questions about our situation that were building in my throat dying. "Bella?" Narcissa nodded. I do too, after a pause. "About how… different she's been lately? Of course I wonder about it. She's my sister as well. I worry."

"Worried enough to go seeking answers?"

"Well — I didn't know there… that the situation had… what are you implying, Cissy? Speak plainly."

Narcissa sent me another sidelong glance, tensing minutely at the expression of impatience on my face. She pushed a stray piece of light hair out of her face. "Never you mind," She muttered, sending me another look. "It will become obvious soon, if not by your own volition then by Mother's."

"What are you talking about?"

Narcissa was unusually solemn. Then she snorted. Her face returned to its usual infuriating, and she yanked on my hair for no apparent reason at all. I squawk, of course, because _ow_ , but I was honestly a little glad that she broke the weird atmosphere. "When you're older," She teased me. "Maybe when you're old enough to go to Hogwarts?"

"Shut up," I bit, shoving her back. "Just because you and Hesper are eleven doesn't mean you can be absolute trolls all the time! It's no excuse!"

Narcissa sniffs in disdain and tosses her hair back. "Sounds like someone's jealous, if you ask me."

"Well no one's asking you, are they."

"Temper, temper! The lady doth protest too much!"

"Cissy!"

Narcissa laughed, messes with my hair again, and threw herself back to lie down on the floor. Smiling absently, she told me, "Things are changing, little troll."

"Changing in a good way or changing in a bad way?" I asked, still lost on what's going on lately.

Narcissa blew out a long breath and muttered, "I've no clue, heinous-face."

I gave up and laid down beside her. I jabbed her in the ribs for good measure, least she start thinking I enjoyed her presence. She jumped like someone had sent a bolt of electricity down her spine. She glared at me from the corner of her eye. I wisely told her, "At least I'm not a warthog."

.

* * *

.

Narcissa and I had spent a lot of time in the room together, enjoying each other's presence innocently and fully. Bellatrix and Andromeda had joined in, but being as old as they were, they'd gotten bored eventually and left to mess around with the house. It was about sunset when I was about to fish around for snacks or beverages. Evans entered the house with a subdued Mandel, and I stopped at the door: Evan was looking oddly smug, even for him, which stopped me in my tracks.

It was good that Evan is back, because being the heir to the Rosier house, he had the ability to call upon House Elves, and we needed someone to attend to the house. Us Black sisters gave up on it pretty quickly after discovering Iola.

He summoned three House Elves from across the oceans and set them to work immediately, to my relief.

Turning to Bellatrix, who was waiting for him in the foyer, he gently stroked the swell of her cheek, before reaching up with his other one and harshly framing her face with his hands. He'd been a lot more aggressive lately for no reason. It bothered me, yeah, but I tried not to think on it much.

I found myself lingering in the doorway, eavesdropping without even thinking about it.

"It is done," He told her. "We will be having guests tonight, dear cousin. Seven pure-blood families, heads and heirs and betrothed's."

"Which ones?" Bellatrix's eyes flashed. "Which ones did you claim?"

"Josephine Picquery. William Steward. Manius Wayne. Nero Boot. Isolt Colmes. Marcius Rutherford. Calpernius Vane."

"Pendergrass?"

"Choosing to remain neutral for the time being," Evan paused. "… But I know them to be easily persuaded. Peace, dear cousin. Chance favours us: they will stand by His side by the end of summer."

"We must." Bellatrix snarled. "There is no chance, there is do or die." Evan looked unimpressed with her ferocity. " _Swear on it_ , Evan. Swear to me that we will have the Pendergrass family by the last sunset of summer or any moment before it." Bellatrix was using her mean voice. She learned it from our mother. I didn't like to hear it coming from her but knowing Bellatrix, if she knew that I was listening, the conversation happening before me would end rather abruptly. I didn't know why, but I felt that I needed to hear this.

Evan, naturally, hesitated.

Bellatrix reached up and grabbed the wrists attached to the hands keeping her head in place. She dug her claws into the sensitive underside of his wrist. He flinched, tried to reclaim his arms, but it didn't work. Bellatrix was tenacious like that. "Swear it," She said again, quieter this time, dangerously. "I would have you swear on your life and your magic, Evan Rosier. This is no small task. We cannot afford to fail it. Do you understand?"

"Of course I understand," Evan hissed in offense. "I have been in the thick of this longer than you, cousin—"

"But there are none as loyal to this cause as I, cousin, _none_." Bellatrix bit.

Evan halted.

Satisfied, Bellatrix bared her teeth in a smile. I hated it. I hated it, I hated it, I hated it. I hated her. I hated this situation. I hated whatever has happened that is beginning to turn her into a person I am barely recognizing. That is not my sister.

"He knows it as well as you do — why do you think I have been trusted with this task, with this imperative duty to our cause? Why me, who has been informed of this only a handful of years, instead you, who has been lurking in His shadow for near a decade? Why is it me and not you, cousin? Do you know?"

Evan was silent.

Bellatrix broke the skin of his wrists with her nails.

"Do you know?" She rasped. "Have you no idea? Truly?"

The commotion attracted my sister, for Narcissa now stood against my back. I could feel her trembling: nervousness?

"It is because I alone am loyal to Him in ways no others shall ever be. His victory will be achieved at all costs. That is the secret to His trust; to my survival. At all costs. There is no price too high for me to pay, no burden too heavy for me to bare, not if it pleases Him, and He rewards my faith with tasks such as these — tasks He will never entrust to you. That is how you stand by His side, cousin — as His loyal servant. He owns my life, my magic, my heart. He is everything."

"Do you understand now, Evan?" Bellatrix released him. Evan carefully didn't step out of her personal space, though I could tell that he wanted nothing more than to put distance between them. "I would have you swear on your magic, dearest cousin, that you will have the Pendergrass family sworn to His allegiance."

"And if they cannot be convinced?" Evan asked with narrowed eyes.

Bellatrix sneered, _spat_ , "If holding them under the Cruciatus curse fails to open their minds to richer pastures, you mean?" Evan nodded. Bellatrix, with venom in her throat, tells him exactly what he should do:

"If that family cannot be convinced then they cannot be trusted, and we will name them blood-traitors — nothing more than filthy pests playing where they are not welcome. They must be _culled_. Unleash a plague upon them — make them regret ever doubting His power, strike fear into the hearts of the other pathetic families who doubt, show them the power His followers wield. Burn their bones if need be, cousin. We will have the Pendergrass', or no one will."

Narcissa placed her hand on the back of my neck. "Come, sister," She whispered as Bellatrix and Evan fled the hallway. "Let's find some food."

I looked over at Narcissa and caught myself wondering when I would lose her too.

.

* * *

.

Picquery. Steward. Wayne. Boot. Colmes. Rutherford. Vane. Rosier. Black.

Evan and Bellatrix entertained the pure-bloods with an extravagant dinner while the children and heirs socialized in the living room. There was a ward around the dining room that made it impossible for me to eavesdrop on the proceedings, and I wasn't close enough to carve a little hole for me to listen to. I was good at wards, but even I couldn't do much from the opposite side of the room.

Instead, I sat to the side and watched intently regardless of the disadvantages. I taught myself how to read their lips as quickly as possible — I didn't succeed, but half-knowledge, however unreliable, was better than ignorance.

At the dining table, Bellatrix placed her arm on the table and pulled up her sleeve. Rutherford's body blocked the sight from me, but I noticed the pureblood's gasping at whatever she had presented to them. I had a feeling I knew what it was. Disgust and shame rose in me until I was choking on them — I couldn't believe it. I _wouldn't_ believe it.

 _Not my sister,_ I thought, over and over and over, _Not my sister, and not so soon._

She was only fifteen. It was only her fifth year in Hogwarts. She was still mine.

How could I be so blind?

(But I hadn't been, not really. I had seen evidence of a sinister presence in her life, and I had heard more than whispers of the thing in the dark. I had been having a reoccurring dream of a monster in my closet, staring out at me with glowing red eyes, but I had dismissed them — no, not dismissed, _repressed_. I had repressed all memory of signs pointing to this outcome to save my own mind from descending into distress. I had purposefully been ignoring the boogieman under my bed, focusing on the smiles my sister gave me and thinking not of her frayed nerves and the dark glint that is ever present in her eyes.

I had not been blind.

I had been _naïve_.)

"My parents once did this too, before their schemes turned on them and put an end to their souls." Iola whispered. I jumped at the sudden proximity of her voice.

She was lingering in a dark corner of the room, letting the shadows swallow her unnatural glow as she glowered at the pureblood's dining at her table. Her face was twisted with disgust. "Curried the favour of other families through fear and pain and violence. They struck terror into the hearts of innocents to suit their own nefarious needs. This is a popular game among the elite."

I was compelled to listen.

"I remember one night… my mother invited the heirs of all houses who had slighted her to dinner. The entire night she whispered into their ears — lies upon lies upon lies. She convinced a man that his best friend was his worst enemy. Her silver tongue convinced them of the wisdom of a pre-emptive strike. She moulded them into desperate men and then armed them with a small tube of arsenic powder. I sat on her left that dinner, as these children fell upon their own swords for the slights of their parents, and watched her laugh herself sick over their dead bodies."

"'You've killed them,' I cried. 'Mama, you have killed them all, these fresh-faced boys and rosy-cheeked girls, and for what? For the sins of their parents? For what? To prove your superiority? You have extinguished their flames and you disrespect their lives by laughing at their corpses. What reason could you have for this madness?'"

"She sat there at the head of the table with her untouched plate of food before her, sipping wine from her gold goblet, and stared at me unnervingly over the edge of it. I watched the mirth strain from her eyes as she watched me, her youngest, mourn the senseless death around her. She sneered at me for my compassion. Yet still, she said nothing."

"I cried, I begged for a reason, any reason, to explain away the stench of death around me. I told her, 'I can't love you, I fear. Not without an explanation for this funeral.' When I saw that emotion would not sway her, I threatened her. 'If you do not tell me, Mama, I will go to the Congress and I will confess to your devilry.' Yet still, she said nothing. She stared at me as if the children were not slumped over the tables, dead by her own hands. As if she did not see them. Could not _smell_ them."

"I ran out of breath eventually. For what seemed like hours, we simply sat there, staring at each other. My mother did not move a fraction of an inch. Only when I had calmed down, when the torrential grief inside of me had been tamed until I felt nothing except an overwhelming nothingness, did my mother place her goblet down. She then began to eat. She cut into her rare steak with her polished silver cutlery slowly, daintily, and ate just the same way. I watched her silently finish her meal in revulsion."

"It was only when she had finished half of her dinner and placed her cutlery to the side did she address me. Wiping her mouth, she folded the napkin over her plate and said to me, 'Does there need to be a reason, Iola?'"

"'Of course there needs to be a reason,' I told her. 'If someone invited me into their home and murdered me there, would you not beg for an explanation?'"

'No,' She said. She didn't even hesitate. 'I would not miss you. I would not grieve you. My child you are, and I love you appropriately, but I am old enough to know the truth of all things: everything dies. Whether you die of natural causes or by another's careful hand is of no concern to me — there is no difference. I would not ask for a reason, for a petty explanation; such things are worthless to me and would not return you to me.'

"It was the answer I had not wanted, not ever. 'Fine,' I had managed to say around my own terror and grief. 'Fine, if that's what you think… then for me, your daughter, wouldn't you confide in me your reasons? Please, Mama. I am begging this of you—this one, simple thing, a basic question. Why did you do it?'"

"My mother thought long and hard at my question. I prepared myself for a speech, for a paragraph of words, a cathedral of reasons and excuses that would allow me to forgive her of this sin. I waited, I yearned, I longed for her innocence. But she did not give me it.."

"She said… She said, 'I was thinking about my own mother this morning, about the way she died, taken from me by that dreadful plague. The plague had not been kind to my mother's body — I could scarcely identify her. Would not have, if not for the familiar buzz of her magic. Black Death, I remember thinking disgracefully. I was disgusted — at the gore, at the audacity, at the insult? I am not entirely certain. No, I thought, a Black would not kill like this, so hideously and disrespectfully. I meditated on that memory this morning so that I would be in the right state of mind to prove it to myself — to prove the sophistication of a proper Black massacre to the world.'"

"'That is all. That is the only reason I have. Does it satisfy you? Are we done with this conversation?' I had been too floored to fumble with a response. She then told me to go to her room. 'In my top drawer, beneath the false bottom of the pearl drawer, there is something I would like for you to read. Fetch it swiftly, if you would, Iola. It is of the utmost importance.' She said. And then she finished her dinner."

Eventually, after a stretched moment where I closed my eyes and imagined the horror of the scene, I was the one to break the silence. I was still alone in my isolated corner of the room while Andromeda, Mandel and Narcissa entertained the children of the purebloods in the dining room. I felt detached from my body. _Is this even reality,_ I began to wonder. _Am I dreaming, or is real life truly as cruel as this?_

I had no answers for myself.

I turned to Iola and softly asked her, "Why did you tell me that?"

Iola didn't answer immediately. She watched the emotions on my face sadly — that compassion she talked about presented in her ghostly eyes — before eventually telling me. "Because that night, I did not go upstairs and fetch what my mother sought for me to fetch. I went straight to my chambers, packed my things, and disappeared into the night."

"You ran away from home?"

"Without a second thought," Iola told me, closing her eyes wistfully, as if the memory warmed her even in death. "I used the money lining my pockets to join a voyage across the ocean and settled in the United States of America with no one but myself as company. My brothers and sister regularly owled me, pleading with me to see sense and return to Britain, but I would not. I was adamant. I was determined to stay away from such a toxic environment. _The Black Family is cursed_ , I once told Phineas in a letter, _It is cursed and poisonous and condemned to hell for the sins of our ancestors before us. Our bloodline is tainted. I will have no part in the madness any longer_."

My lips pinched. I was fond of my family and it hurt to hear her say such things. I was still loyal, despite what Iola seemed to believe of me and my destiny. I was still loyal. I was _still loyal_.

"And so I left. And I stayed away. And I became happy without them dogging my footsteps."

"Yeah," I said derisively, unable to help myself. I pointedly stared at her floating feet. "And now look at you."

How could she have ever wanted this, I wondered? Eternal life? To live as a shade of her living self until the sun burns the earth and there is no one left to haunt. Oh, what I would give, I thought, to have passed peacefully into the next life. Suddenly, I was tired of living. Or perhaps, not so suddenly at all.

Iola smiled at me. She hadn't taken offense to my words. Amusement, at most. Pity, at least. "Do you know what that thing she told me to fetch was? When she explained her reasons and sent me to her room?" I shrugged. I didn't recall her mentioning it. That didn't mean she hasn't, just that I hadn't been paying attention.

"It was her will, Callidora." Iola told me softly. "It was her _will_. My mother died that night as well, poisoned by the very meal that the others died by. I had watched her eat that entire steak and never knew that she was dying as she feasted. There was no sign of it on her face. It was as if she were eating an average meal: how was I to know? When my brother told me the news... That's when I knew: my mother was not the woman I loved when she died. I grieved her — of course I did, she was my mother — but I did not regret her passing. She was not human enough for that."

But I was no longer looking at Iola. I was barely listening.

No, what I was doing was staring into the dining room, my eyes blown wide at the sight laid before me. Rutherford had shifted enough that I could saw Evan.

And what I saw...

"Me? At least I died human."

... struck terror into my heart.

No. I thought. Please, no. It can't be. It can't be so bad.

But it was.

.

* * *

.

A time ago, I realized that my mother took out everything beating and red within me and replaced with steel and flint and hard sharp edges. That for all my efforts and memories and life experience, the ability to be gentle was now lost on me.

Despite this, I tried, I _am_ _trying_ to be a person. For Narcissa and Andromeda and Bellatrix; for my sisters and hearts and lights of my life. I want to be a person again. And so there is a new fear of disappointing the ones who see me as a person and not a thing — that I'm not a ghost who has convinced herself that she is still alive, even with that gaping hole in her chest. I learn that this new fear compromises me in ways I've never been disadvantaged with before.

Being reborn does not give me an advantage over him — and let's not pretend we don't all know who I'm talking about here. He is a genius, one of the most powerful wizards in the world, and whatever heart he possesses that beats beneath his breast is one full of bitter black sludge. I am seven, then eight, then eleven, then seventeen, and in none of those ages am I the small butterfly that heralds a hurricane. I am flesh and blood and bones and he is desperate and unloved and _dangerous_.

(Dangerous. Why would I put myself in front of that? Why would anyone ever—)

Why wouldn't you fight, you ask? You think ill of me, don't you, for not standing against him despite my fear. For not being brave and courageous and stubborn in the face of an inevitable, painful end. Don't you? I can see it in your eyes. You're judging me. You think me a coward. Ha. Well, it is an opinion and I will respect that it is yours. However, there is a difference between me and the — the Order of the Phoenix. Between me and the blood-traitor Gryffindor's in their tilted homes and shared embraces. Between me and oppressed ones. It's simple.

It's experience.

He is primal. That's what it is to me — it's primal and childlike. The boogieman. He's the dark underneath my bed and in my closet with glowing red eyes—

— but here's the thing. I was shoved into that dark. I know what that dark is. And I am very afraid.

And I will be staying out of his way. I have died one too many times as it is.

(Simple, yeah? What'd I tell you?)

.

* * *

.

((There is a breaking point, Iola tells me. A point in your life where you cannot bend or twist or weave situations to fit your advantage. A point in your life where the tension is concentrated and you fracture and you know, you know that you will break, that fracturing and breaking and snapping is the only option available to you, and you cannot escape it. When that point arrives, you will have a choice.

The Black Family have a chronic habit of looking behind them. Our dedication to the Old Ways is just as sure as a death sentence. She tells me that our family is too concerned with the principles that laid the road behind them and think not of ways to continue paving the way. Innovation, creativity, originality—all such things are lost to Black's as soon as they doom themselves to times long since passed.

That is the choice, she tells me. A simple one: Will you decide according to your future, or will you choose according to the past?

And then she tells me: I do so hope you pick the right choice, Callidora.))

.

* * *

.

I couldn't deny it any longer. Right there at the dining room table, I watched as Evan pulled up his sleeve.

And present, bold and evil, pressed into the pale underside of his arm, was a writhing red tattoo of a snake.

My world _tilted_.

* * *

...

* * *

 **22.09.16 | EDIT:** Changed Pandora's name to the canon name it's supposed to be lol. Fixed a couple of unbearable typos but not much else. Additional note.

 **19.10.16 | EDIT:** I realized that the Dark Mark tattoo is, in fact, _red_. So there's _that_.

 **05.11.16 | EDIT:** I changed up all of Pandora's dialog because... holy shit, how old is she again? I don't know how to write children.

 **22.03.17 | EDIT:** I revamped the entire chapter. I think I made it easier to read? Who knows.

* * *

...

Authors Note:

Alternative title: 'Del just remembered that the Marauders Era is Voldemort's glory days and panicked a bit'?

Fun fact: wrote this chapter with Take On Me playing on repeat in the background. You probs can't tell with that thick smog of ANGST in the way. My bad.

Leave a review on your way out, unless you didn't like this, then please don't? I'm sensitive to any and all forms of criticism, constructive included. I need, like, constant validation. Pce.


	2. even your emotions had an echo

Title: fish hooks in the corners of their mouths  
Category: Books » Harry Potter  
Author: deletrear  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Summary: "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]  
Dedication: This chapter goes out to billy for no particular reason apart from the fact that I've been moody as hell all week and my moirail deserves, like, way better than me tbh. *diamond*

.

* * *

03.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _even your emotions had an echo_

* * *

.

Sirius laughed at me as soon as I walked through the door. It was less because I looked funny and more because Sirius was a certified jackass.

I frowned and sat across from him at the table, careful to keep the platter of pastries between us. I had a sticky paste on my cheek; a horrid coconut-smelling green concoction carefully covering the nasty hex Narcissa had sent at me. There were warts all over my fingers and welts covering my back. I looked as if I were suffering the rightful consequences of terrible hygiene, and Sirius was enjoying every moment of it. I counted myself lucky that my robes covered the darker spells. Better to have his laughing at me than have him glowering at his mother from a dark corner.

Unsurprisingly, it took a while for Sirius to calm down. "Do you know how to duel at all?"

"Theoretically, yes."

"Then why can't you put anything you learn into practice?" Sirius snorted and shook his head. "Pathetic."

I scoffed. "We can't all be as prodigious as you, Sirius."

"Well, no. That would be unfair." He said without hesitation. I wasn't surprised. Sirius had admirable sense of self-value. It galloped right over the line of separating 'confidence' from 'narcissism'. He wasn't slightly ashamed of it.

"I have to ask then. Is there anything you are good at?" He asked me, stretching out to pluck a blueberry tart from the top of the pile. He had crumbs all over his dark robes and no inclination to clean himself up. "I've never met a worse dueller. All you do is run away or throw up a shielding charm."

"Of course I'm good at something." I frowned harder at him. He waggled his eyebrows and popped his fingers into his mouth, sucking obnoxiously loud. "I am good at running away and throwing up shielding charms."

"Evidently not, considering the jinxes on your body."

"Maybe I'm hiding my true potential beneath a veneer of incompetency."

"Excuses, excuses." Sirius snorted and picked up a small club sandwich, practically inhaling it. Just looking at him made me sick. How could he eat so much? "There's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm sure we will all continue to hate you as much as usual if we were to discover your status as a squib."

I rolled my eyes at him. I grabbed a raspberry tart and nibbled on the ends of it, not too hungry despite the duel I just finished (and _lost_ , in the most humiliating fashion possible for someone to lose a duel). Duelling was… not a strong point of mine, to say the least on the subject. Me and face-to-face confrontation simply did not get along. Even if the wand I was using had been mine and not the spare one we kept around for the underage children to duel with until they were legally allowed to own a wand, I was pretty sure I'd still suck.

I was uncomfortable with duelling. I didn't have enough destructive, raw power or considerate control over my magic when I fought. Offensive spells hated me. Stuck at the wrong end of a wand, the only thing I could think was 'run'. No hexes. No jinxes. Just the urge to flee as quick as my little feet could take me.

Alas, for all my track and field capabilities, I was not faster than one of Narcissa's spells. She always caught me. The only thing duelling helped me with was my ability to dodge or my reaction time for the shielding charm. The rest was a sound trouncing that taught me nothing except what the dark wood timber floor tasted like.

Sirius had snatched up another tart from the table. I was only half way through my own. "You're disgusting." I told him and his full mouth. He was making a mess of himself like some sort of child.

Sirius grinned with his teeth, showcasing the chewed food in his mouth. I very honestly gagged. He swallowed—again, way too loudly—and crowed in success. I'd never understand boys. Sometimes I thought they weren't too bad and that I could maybe learn to live with them, and then they did their damnedest to prove me wrong, and I was disgusted by them again. One day I'd learn my lesson, I supposed.

Sirius pointedly grabs a little cupcake and peels off the wrapping. "I'm a growing boy." He shoved half of the cupcake in his mouth. I was sure he was being as gross as possible to put me off. It was working.

I wrinkled my nose and throw my handkerchief at him. "Growing idiot, more like."

"You're just jealous because I'm better than you at everything." He wiped his mouth with the hanky and wiped the crumbs off his robes onto the floor.

I folded the handkerchief, wondering at the nearest opportunity when I could burn it. "I'm better than you with wards." I reminded him. Truthfully, I was better than everyone with wards. I was _really fucking good_ with wards. I remembered the lesson when we discovered my aptitude for them. It hadn't impressed Mother or Aunt Walburga, but it sure had pissed Sirius off. For that reason alone I made sure to thrive in that area of magic. "Wards hate you."

"Wards are a useless area of magic."

"All that salt might ruin the taste of the tarts for you, dearest cousin."

"Don't insult me with phrases that don't even make sense!"

"… Furry."

Sirius looked annoyed with me on principle. He broke off a piece of his pastry and pegged it at my head. Thanks to my years of duelling expertise, it was easy to dodge the projectile. Of course, Sirius wasn't actually an idiot, and had thrown a second one slightly lower than the first, and that one hit me smack in the forehead, but I dodged the first one and I figured that had to count for something.

"Use words that actually exist, you bimbo. Hey," Sirius broke off another piece and threw it at me again. "tart for a tart!"

Okay, I thought. It's that time of the month again. I picked up a club sandwich and disassembled it, laying out the individual ingredients on the table in front of me. I mentally apologized to the House Elves responsible for cleaning the room. It was going to be a chore when we were finished. "A shite sense of humour to match your hideous robes, my, Siri, what bold fashion choices you're making!" As I yelled, I pick up a piece of soggy lettuce and throw it with all I am worth.

 _Splat!_

Bulls-eye!

"Not the hair!" Sirius screeched, before scrambling across the table to scoop as many tarts as he could fit in his arms. I armed myself with the sandwiches and dived just in time to miss a strawberry tart. I threw a few slices of ham at him. He smacked the flying lunch meat with the back of his hand. "So you wanna play with the big dogs, huh!?"

"The only big thing in this room is your over-sized ego!"

"Jokes on you, a high self-esteem is nothing to be ashamed of! Your words do nothing to me—whoa!"

I grinned to myself and curve balled a triangular piece of bread that stuck to his cheek. Thank you, Kritter, for being overly generous with the butter as per usual. For once, it worked in my favour. "Don't waste time monologue-ing when you should be paying attention, Siri! That'll get you hurt!"

Sirius wiped the left over butter from his face and rolled his neck. He ripped a tart in half, making the pastry soggy and dripping the berry juice everywhere. I took a moment to mourn the loss of the lovely cashmere robes I was wearing that day. But the dead didn't worry about their fashion choices when they were being lowered into the ground, and I would die before I dishonoured myself here.

"Come on then! Is that all you got?" Sirius crowed, then choked a bit, since I had done the miracle of miracles and landed a slice of salami right in his mouth. The smile was frozen on his face. He looked confused for a moment, likely wondering, _When did this salami get here?_

I snorted. "Told you. Keep that gob shut and you might have a chance of surviving this."

"Alright. I'm serious now." Sirius said, and then propelled a pastry at me. It splatted against the wall behind my head. "That was the obligatory pun done, by the way. You don't need to pick up my sla—stop throwing lettuce at me when I'm talking!"

"Then take me serious and fight!"

"I thought _I_ was Sirius!"

"You just said the obligatory pun was out of the way!"

"I couldn't just let the opportunity to pass now could I? Think fast!" I didn't think fast. The raspberry tart exploded in my face and likely did some curious interloping with the green paste on my cheek. Sirius barked a laugh at whatever expression was on my face. "Let's make this quick." He said, throwing another.

I actually dodged that one. I pointed at him and hissed, "No wandless magic, cheater."

Sirius was actually quite good at wandless magic—yet another thing he was better than me with. He didn't find a lot of uses for it in Grimmauld Place and he seemed to doubt he ever would, but wandless magic was definitely a boon during a wandless food fight. It was better that I established the rules now before he duplicated his ammo and completely annihilated me.

Sirius had the gall to look offended. "Me? Using wandless magic? I would never."

"I'm serious." I said, and glowered at him to dissuade him from the pun. It looked like it physically pained him to hold his tongue. "You put away your magic and I'll put away my shields and we'll try and kill each other with food like civilized people. Deal?"

"But you're faster than me."

"You're stronger than me."

Sirius nodded. "Alright, sure, that's true. Deal. Should we countdown?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Alright, if you want to… One."

"… Two." He said after a lengthy pause.

We stood there, glaring at each other suspiciously. Sirius tensed his shoulders, jerking a bit to the left. I twitched. He smirked and waggled his eyebrows at me, obviously quite pleased to see me jump. He feinted left. I jumped a bit to the right. He looked overjoyed by my reactions.

Fine then, I decided, If he wanted it to be like that, then I'd give him what he wanted.

I bellowed: "THREE!" and leaped forward, attaching myself to Sirius' front and taking us both down. Sirius shouted, and I shoved my grubby edible ammo into his open mouth, making it as disgusting and uncomfortable as possible. While he preoccupied himself with spitting out the sandwich, I sprinted back over to the table and grabbed more sandwiches.

Sirius recovered quickly, however, and before I knew it there was a soggy pastry connecting with the back of my head. I shrieked, "Watch the hair!"

"There is no mercy in war!"

"Remember that you said that, dog." I responded, then threw a tea cup at him.

Sirius looked thrilled. "Wicked." He breathed, a handsome grin on his face. "We can do that?"

"We can do that."

"Cool." Said Sirius, and then he exploded into action.

It. was. _on_.

* * *

...

* * *

Andromeda found us in the aftermath, exhausted and covered in food bits. She looked around at the destroyed room and watched the ham on the ceiling fan spin around in circles for a few times. Under her boots was an amalgamation of blueberry tart, salami, egg and tea that should have never been. There was raspberry juice splattered on the walls like a murder scene; and right in the middle of it were me and Sirius, catching our breath and resting our arms. There were great big grins on our faces. My cheeks hurt from smiling. There was an ache in my stomach from our shared laughter—the only type of pain I'd ever experienced that I found myself loving.

Andromeda looked at us silently for a long, long time. The ham dislodged itself and flew in her direction. It hit the doorway beside her head. She didn't so much as twitch. "What," she said in an even voice, "the bloody hell _happened here_?"

"That's a bad word." I said.

"Don't be such a piece of soggy toast, Cal."

"Don't call me that."

Sirius stuck his tongue out at me.

Andromeda made a strangled noise. "I hate coming back here for hols."

"But we're so glad to have you here, Andy!" I wheezed, giggling a little.

Sirius snorted. "Yeah, we love you, Dromeda."

Andromeda groaned and screamed: "KREACHER!"

* * *

...

* * *

… Yes. I do still maintain that Sirius and I never got along. What's that look for, huh? We did spend our developmental years at each other's throats. Are you not listening to me? We just spent an hour throwing cups and food at each other, yelling biting insults and meeting each other blow for blow. I still don't like him and he doesn't like me.

No, I would not say that Sirius is my favourite cousin. That is still Evan.

…

…. Well of course it is. 'Even after everything he's done?' I don't know for sure that he's done anything. Besides, Evan continues to read to me, although not as frequently as he used to when I was younger. I'm ten years old at that point. I don't blame him for stopping, exactly, and he is quite busy these days—

… Don't ask me that. Please, don't ask me that. I don't know to know or tell you what he's busy doing. You don't need to hear it. I don't want to hear it.

(Do you know how hard it is to try and love the only family you have left and knowing that despite your earnest efforts, the core of them remains something dusty and black and _irredeemable_ —)

He's still my favourite. I have nice, peaceful memories of Evan. Sirius is the King of all Dramatics, you know, so there isn't really any peaceful moment with him. I like my quiet time too much to ever consider him a favourite of mine. If I were to widen my subject pool outside familial relationship however, I would have to say Pandora was my favourite. I'm still not sure.

* * *

...

* * *

Bellatrix wasn't around much anymore. She spent a lot of her time at Grimmauld Place with Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion. She was always busy with some errand or another so even when we went there to visit her, it was a coin flip whether or not she'd be there. Besides her constant absence, she was strange lately. Less and less like my older sister and more and more like someone I'd steer clear of in a dark street. Bit discomfiting, that.

The last time I saw her was her wedding—or the official and passionless union of her and Rodolphus, because I thought it an insult to actual weddings to consider hers one. It was an almost scandalously short affair, actually. They went through the customs as quickly as wizardly possible and disbanded as soon as the certificates were signed. I barely had the opportunity to congratulate her. After that… poof. That was it. She was always busy.

Like, come on, right? What exactly did I even mean to her that she couldn't take a few hours out of her busy schedule to stop by and ask me about my day?

(So I was bitter. Sue me.)

Nearly two months had passed before I would properly see her again. Worse yet, I would barely recognize her when I did: her hair would be loose, wild and snake-like, occupying the air in the room that her presence does not. She was swathed in charcoal robes that hang loosely from her figure, swishing in a semi-circle around her with every movement. Her warm brown eyes were very round on her gaunt face, and she was grinning with all her teeth when I walked in, deep in a whispered conversation with her husband and brother-in-law.

I had mistook her for Mother, at first, which is why I crept into the room unseen and unheard. I learned a long time ago not to aggravate my mother. It was when Bellatrix laughed that I looked up from my feet and recognized her: it was her eyes, at that moment. While different, I could recognize that shade of brown under polyjuice potion and twenty glamour charms.

She unsettled me. I'll admit it. Seeing her then, she unsettled me.

But I'd still missed her. How could I not? This was the sister I had grown up with. Whoever she goes on to become with rank secondary to that inborn position.

"Bella?" I stuttered, mouth agape. Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan looked up, tense. Dressed in black as they were, they looked like starving panthers about to pounce. Bellatrix lifted her hand in a sharp motion as soon as she laid eyes on me. The brothers sunk back into their chairs, cautious beady eyes on me. I swallowed, suddenly at a loss for words. "… You're back."

"I visit often." Said Bellatrix, standing to her feet. She glided over to me and grabbed my face in her hands, twisting my head here and there, checking me over. It was a familiar action. I went limp and waited for her to be done with me. "I see you scarcely though, little sister. Where are you these days?"

"At Pan's house." I answered. "Pandora Travers?"

Approval flashes through Bellatrix's eyes. "A Travers? They're a good sort. Almost as pure as we are." Almost, because no one was ever quite as pure as the Black family. "It is a good union. I do hope you'll continue to influence her."

Uh. "Yes, of course, Bella." I said, although I wasn't really sure what she was talking about. "Anything for you."

Bellatrix nodded, releasing my face. She grabbed my hands and examined them. "Your nails are dirty."

"Gardening, Bella. The gloves don't keep all of it away."

Bellatrix scoffed and dropped my hand like it had burned her. She tweaked my nose. "You really oughtn't indulge in the servants work, Dora. Your inclination towards physical labour could be considered you greatest flaw." There was an undertone to her voice that made the hairs on my nape stand up. The way the Lestrange brothers were peering at me might have also had something to do with it.

I forced a grin onto my face. "Reckon I could trounce you in an arm wrestling contest though!"

Bellatrix blinked. The lines of her face softened. She looked more like Bella and less like Madam Lestrange. I preferred this version of her. "I think not, little sister." She snorted. It reminded me of Narcissa's delicate little snort. I missed Narcissa too, these days. Andromeda as well. She was always at Hogwarts. She was also the only sister I had left in this life that wasn't destined to be the mistress of all things racist. "I'm afraid I remain superior to you in every way."

"Betcha five galleons that I'm better with wards."

Bellatrix barked a laugh, startled by my overly childish tone. I reckoned I could get away with it for as long as it took her to remember my actual personality. We hadn't seen each other for so long that I could milk her big sister instincts for a week before she got smart (which I did, of course, because I'm still a Black among everything else). "You're a ten year old without a wand. I'd rob you blind."

I shrugged. "Eh. If you say so. I'd probably just let you win anyway so you wouldn't feel inferior."

"Oh, I've never felt inferior before."

"I know, that's why I'd let you win. Spare you the grief and all."

Rodolphus suddenly snorted, startling me half out of my skin. "Brat reminds me of Rabby when he was a rascal. Never knew when to hold his tongue until Father personally taught him how."

"It's true," Rabastan smiled: an unkindly thing. "I was a little shit. Better now, 'course. I know my place. I even figure I could teach your little sister hers, if she's interested."

I was not interested. Not at all.

Bellatrix's eyes went round again. She curled her lips back over her teeth and said, very softly, "I think not, Rabastan. Callidora is mine. Let it be known that no one shall touch her without my express consent."

"Possessive, are you?" Rabastan tilted his head. "She isn't just yours. She's his as well."

Bellatrix inhaled sharply. "That may be so," She hissed. "But she still is not yours to touch. He is a different matter altogether. You're barely loyal enough to lick the mud from his shoes."

"Ah now, Bella, don't tell me you're jealous of sharing him. That's it, right? That's why you're so hostile?"

"I'm hostile because I don't tru—"

Rodolphus cleared his throat. He said, "You garden, do you, Callidora?"

I froze. Bellatrix and Rabastan's heads snapped to look at me. They looked seconds away with whipping out their wands and throwing Unforgivables at each other. The last place I wanted to be was between them. Naturally, that's exactly where I was positioned.

"I do." I answered Rodolphus. "I find it calming."

"Calming, do you? Do you enjoy chatting with the earth worms?" I blushed in humiliation, as was expecting of me, and ducked my head. As soon as I was sure my hair fell into my face, I curled my lips back from my teeth and took in a careful breath. I really liked gardening. It sincerely pissed me off when people kept telling me it was some sort of inferior hobby. "That means you are familiar with poisonous plants, right?"

I tensed. Then forced myself to relax. "I've read about a few of them, yeah. They're neat."

"The prettiest ones are often the most dangerous ones." Rodolphus, a note of agreement in his voice, even though I never said anything close to what he was. "I'm sure we could put a skill such as yours to use. What about your other skills? Wards, did you say? You are proficient with wards?"

"I… I suppose."

"A flimsy branch of magic." Rodolphus hummed. "Do you have any other talents? Useful ones, perhaps? Can you duel?"

"Not… not as such." I kept my head bowed. Why did I need to be able to duel? I wouldn't ever be put into a situation where I'd be forced to defend myself face-to-face. I played to my strengths. Always.

"Potions, then?"

"Uh… no."

"Hm." Rodolphus scoffed. "Not even Charms? Transfiguration? None? My… you're about as useful as a broken chair. And you don't even have the nerve to look me in the eye when I'm talking to you. Is she truly related to you, Bella? She's so… small." Inferior, he was saying. I was insignificant. Worthless. Pure-bloods, I found myself thinking. They're all the same in the end.

"As I said," Bellatrix hissed, "she is mine to hurt, Rodolphus. Hold your tongue." Rodolphus' eyebrows ticked up again, but he raised his hands in surrender and relaxed back into his seat. When I looked up, eyes misty, he quirked an insincere half-smile at me that turns my blood to ice.

I looked away first.

Bellatrix turned to Rabastan. "Is there anyone else who has anything to say about Dora?"

Rabastan squarely met her eyes. "There is plenty I could say about that one." He said, teeth bared. "I'll save it for later, perhaps. I wouldn't want to tear up your aunt's living room. I take pride in being a respectful guest."

"That's one word for it." Bellatrix said coldly. Rabastan looked gleeful at her words, his hand inching towards his hip. Bellatrix tracked the movement, her own hand twitching. I knew all it would take was a flick of her wrist and she would put him down like a rabid dog.

I also knew that I didn't want to see that.

I whispered. "Bella…" She stopped moving but did not look away from her opponent. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say. I hadn't really thought that far ahead. I decided, for once, to use the truth. "Bella, could I… I would like to return to my room… with your permission."

"No." Bellatrix said quickly. "No, there is something I must tell you. Wait."

I waited.

Rodolphus looked at his nails. "I don't want to be here any longer, Bella. You've met your pet squib. Tell her what she needs to know and then let us leave." He didn't even look up from his cuticles. "Rabby, down."

"Not a dog." Rabastan replied, though he took his hand off his wand. Bellatrix watched his quietly, eyes still big and brown and wide, but his truce appeared genuine. Bellatrix made a huffy noise and looked for an honest moment like she was about to spit on him. Her throat was working and her teeth were getting bigger and whiter with each inch that her lips moved back. I don't know how she reigned herself in.

Instead of spitting, she whispered, "Dora."

I blinked. I grabbed the hand dangling at her side. My eldest sister was so tall these days. So big and tall and mean and powerful. She probably hadn't had anyone hold her hand for a while. "Yes?" I replied. Her hand tightened convulsively around mine for a second, and then she was prying her fingers loose.

I let her.

"There is to be a party tonight." Bellatrix said, whipping back around to face me properly. She looked a bit unhinged, fingers twitching at her side. Her husband was still reclined in his seat, appearing unperturbed by the hostility leaking from his wife and brother. Bellatrix stroked my face again. "At the Carrow Place. It will be a wonderful time for you to… get to know the children of your generation. After all, they will be your allies when you go to Hogwarts. All of them are guaranteed for Slytherin."

Slytherin. I felt on edge just at the thought of it. "Will Acheron be there?"

Bellatrix raised her eyebrows. "You want to see the boy?"

"No," I shook my head. "Merlin, no. I want to know so that I can prepare excuses to avoid him."

"That could be considered an insult and you don't want to be insulting the Carrow's." Bellatrix's eyes were narrowed in warning. "I know you don't like the betrothal contract but it is for your best. You can't inherit any of the Black fortune as a cousin to the heir, but as a wife to Acheron, you could…" Bellatrix glanced to the side. Rodolphus' eyebrows were hitched. Bellatrix smiled at me, plastic. "… but that's here and there, and hardly relevant. You're too young to be thinking about that anyway."

"… If you say so, Bella."

"I do." Bellatrix huffed. "And he will be there—you little fiancée."

"I thought he was staying in Hogwarts for the holidays." I was obviously disappointed. And also doing my best to ignore the Lestrange brothers.

"You're thinking of Hector, the older one. He's… well, I guess you could say he's handling a few business errands for his father. Nothing for you to worry about, in any case. You should go upstairs and inform Cissy of the gathering—I'm sure she'll be quite happy to paint herself up for this."

A Carrow ball. I… really didn't want to go.

"Yes, Bella. I'll see you…?"

"Soon, I promise."

"Okay. It's nice to see you again."

"Go, Dora."

I left. I had missed Bella, but I didn't think I would mind if I didn't see her for another two months.

* * *

...

* * *

The Carrow ball was the last public gathering of pure-bloods that I can remember being a part of before my sorting. It wasn't particularly enjoyable. I was never one for parties. I didn't like the decorum, the masks, the gaudy robes or the complicated dishes. I excelled with pure-blood customs and mannerisms, as was expected of me, but I didn't have much respect for them.

I felt many-eyed and many-legged, perched in the corner, more powerful than any of them ever noticed. All they saw when they looked at me was the youngest child of Cygnus Black: a pushover, a spare, a mare And yet, I didn't feel inferior to them. Not in the ways they felt prevailed, at least. I knew my own value. It weighed better than theirs.

(How many faces had my eyes danced across tonight belonging to a dead man? How many of these witches would be dead in a decade? How many powerful witches and wizards in this hall were marked by a madman, leashed like attack dogs? I didn't know the exact number: not because I couldn't tell—certain ones gave off a sort of aura, an uneasiness, like ghostly fingers trailing over the back of my neck—but because there was too many to keep count of.)

Moving on: Pandora was there that night. I'd watched her disappear into the swell of people to find a drink. The apple cider at the table I was guarding had been consumed. Primarily by me. I had already peed seven times by the time Frank Longbottom approached me.

I didn't think much of Frank.

…

…

… That's it. That's all I have for you on him. No long introspection about the heir of the Longbottom line. I really, truly, have nothing much to say to him.

Oddly enough, he has always had a strange amount to say to me. I never understood it.

"So… are you… having fun?"

I sighed softly into my empty cup. Frank Longbottom was watching me for my response carefully. It would be rude not to reply—insulting, in fact. So I went for the next best thing: Blunt rudeness. "No." I said flatly..

I think I could physically feel his feelings being hurt.

"Oh. Um… why not?" I shrugged. Like I was going to tell Frank about my discomfort in large crowds and how it gave me a headache, like staring at a rainbow coloured spinning spiral for a minute too long. "… Still not much of a talker, huh? That's okay. I like it about you."

I looked away from the spot on the wall at that. "You _like_ that about me?" I questioned.

Frank's face flared up. His face now clashed horribly with his scarlet robes. "As a friend, of course! I like that about you in a friendly way! Not, not in a, like, non-friendly way, or any way more or less than friendly. I wouldn't ever think that way about you." I must have looked surprised. Frank winced. "Not to say that you're unattractive or undesirable, you're plenty desirable! … is what I'd say if I liked you. That way. In a more than friend way. Which I don't, so there's no need to worry."

I stared at him in silence, asking him with my eyebrows, _Who's worrying?_

Frank winced again and sighed deeply, setting his untouched champagne to the side. He bowed his head and little bit and mumbled, "I'm… going to just… go and save myself the extra embarrassment. I'll see you later, Callidora… or… not…" He sighed again and walked off, looking like a kicked puppy. I watched him go, more than a little confused about what just happened.

I shrugged. Whatever. I guess I just didn't understand Frank. You couldn't win everything. At least the conversation hadn't dragged on.

Small victories.

Pandora returned with two flutes filled with a pale drink and handed one off to me. "Was that Longbottom again?" She asked, swirling her drink around. I accepted the flute. I took a sip. Vermouth. I put the flute down. "He must like you more than I thought if he still tries to talk to you."

"He's weird." I muttered, glowering at my empty hands. I was thirsty. "I don't get him at all."

"He just wants to get to know you."

"Why?"

Pandora smiled, looked at me from the corner of her eye, and took a long drink from her wine. "I honestly can't figure out a single reason."

"Hilarious." I grabbed the neck of the flute and gently redirected it away from her mouth. "Don't drink too much of that. You're too small for it."

"It's watered down."

"Still. Vermouth isn't weak." I cast a glance around the room and then empty the drink out under the table. Pandora made a soft, outraged noise, hissing something under her breath that I took care in not catching. "I've seen a couple of glasses knock a fully grown wizard out."

Pandora let out a long breath. "What is it with your aversion of alcohol?"

I rolled my eyes at her and grabbed her sleeve, tugging her as I walked away. As soon as I'm sure she's following me, I let her go. "Alcohol makes you stupid." I defended myself, uncomfortable with the glare I felt on my back. "Your brain is the best part of you. I'd hate for you to lose it."

"I like to think I'm quite pretty as well."

"You are the moonlight and stars personified." I assured her. We ducked behind a door together. It was a living room, fit with a low-burning fireplace and an untouched platter of fruit sitting on the table. All the furniture in the room was a rich brown colour. The couch was leather, with a warm golden blanket thrown over the top of it. I hadn't expected such a welcoming room from the Carrow's. There was apple cider there too, which I pointed out to Pandora. "We're not exactly going to dehydrate tonight, Pan. Better apple cider than vermouth."

She didn't look impressed. "You'll be fun at parties."

"If the only entertainment at a party is the buffoonery of drunkards, then I'm sure I don't want to go to the party in the first place."

"Or so you say," Pandora said, drinking her non-alcoholic apple cider. She smiled at me. I feel forgiven. "Next year. We'll sneak into a seventh year party, see for ourselves. Oh, don't pull that face." I consciously reformed my face so that I was not grimacing. "It'll be good for you. We all need to be introduced to new and exciting things."

"I don't need to be introduced to a drunk witch, Pan. I'm well-acquainted with the concept."

"Is that so?" Pandora smoothly switched out her empty glass with my full glass and sipped. Her glass had her lipstick stained on the edge. I wiped at it with my thumb and stared at the contrast the waxy lipstick made against my skin. Pandora wore a lighter lipstick than I did—a soft, almost nude pink, whereas I wore a dark brown. Her mother really enjoyed playing up Pandora's natural ethereal quality, turning her into a fairy instead of a little girl. My mother, on the other hand, preferred her children to look like the undead, which was considerably less charming than faeries, you realize.

I didn't mind all that much though. Mythical suited Pandora. She was another universe.

"… ah, just like old times…"

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's fine. I almost missed this. You. Me. Hiding away from all the other guests. It's been a long time since I've watched you get lost in your own head."

She's laughing, I realized a moment too late, even though I hadn't exactly stopped staring at her. The fireplace was doing funny things to the shadows on her face. My stomach turned, even though I had barely touched the alcohol the entire night, and I had a mad thought that I was going spit up my dinner all over Pandora and ruin this for the both of us. She grinned at me before turning to stare into the fire. I watched her. I wondered which parent she inherited the long eyelashes from—I couldn't recall ever noticing them on either.

"Cal." Said Pandora, leaning in closer than she ought to out in public like we were. "Are you sure you're okay? Is this about the wine? You don't look too good."

I leaned back and shook my head. "Sorry, sorry. I was thinking again."

"It seems that's all you ever do." Pandora giggled. "Would you like to sit down?"

"I'm fine, Pan. Really. If anything, I suppose we should stop hiding away. Your parents will notice your absence."

Pandora sighed airily. "I really wish they would stop hounding me like they do. I can't breathe. I'm looking forward to Hogwarts, you know. It'll give me some time away from them." I feel the same way about my own family, though maybe the relationship dynamic is a spot different. "Speaking of family… where is your cousin? I haven't seen him about all night."

"Regulus or Sirius?"

"Sirius, of course. I know perfectly well where Regulus is." At Aunt Walburga's side, as he always was.

"I haven't the faintest." I muttered, grabbing the half-empty glass from Pandora's gentle grip and finishing it off. She watched me tip my head back and scull it with a look of faint bemusement. Probably thought it was an unsophisticated gesture for someone of my standing. "He's off making trouble for his mother, I suspect."

"He's rather good at that, isn't he? Making trouble?"

"Oh, Sirius is rather proficient at a lot of things, making trouble the least of it. Don't let his charisma fool you. He's a sneaky guy. Smarter than me, I reckon."

Pandora looked surprised. "I never considered him stupid but are you sure he's smarter than you? You're not an idiot yourself."

"I'm certain. I have more patience than him, but that's about it. I imagine if he's about making trouble that there isn't much we can do to stop it."

Pandora didn't skip a beat. "Who said anything about wanting to stop him?" I paused, set my glass down, and allowed my lips to curl into a fond smile. Pandora grinned back, crooked and elastic, and my stomach curdled again. "Do you figure he'll be out on the balcony?"

* * *

...

* * *

Carrow Sr. was frothing at the mouth by the time Pandora and Sirius were finished. Even as an untrained witch, a quick amateur exploding charm could always do the job (it helped that chaos was sort of the _point_ when it came to a well-aimed reducto). Pandora and Sirius continued waltzing around on the floor, hiding their giggles by leaning in extra close and pretending to whisper to each other. I watched a wand slip up Pandora's sleeve as they spun and spun away from the shattered ice fountain—now snowflakes falling from the sky, among vermouth wine and apple cider. I was to the side, clear of the target of affect area, observing.

Sirius danced Pandora across the room until they were standing by my side. Sirius was flushed, smirking like he was the coolest guy in the room, with his arm thrown around Pandora as if they were friends. He said to me, "Nice catch with this one, Cal. She's good people, for a stuffy pure-blood."

"Don't call me Cal." I said. "And you're a stuffy pure-blood, if you don't recall."

"It's different!" Sirius protested hotly. I had to agree. It was.

Pandora tilted her head, a question forming on her lips, before something warm crashed into her gaze and her mouth softened into a smile. She had smiled a lot tonight. I hadn't known she liked parties so much. "Your cousin is a riot, Cal, I quite enjoyed his company."

"You'd be the only one who ever has."

"Charming, isn't she? And why do you let her call you Cal and not me?" Sirius said dryly. Pandora grinned, looking quite pleased with herself. I didn't know why. "You know what, Pandora? You should stick with me tonight. Promise I'll be a lot more fun than that wet blanket."

"I happen to like wet blankets," Pandora drummed her spidery fingers across her chin. "Especially in the summer. They can do a marvellous job at cooling you down. Much more efficient than a cooling charm, since you don't have to constantly renew the charm. Wet blankets are very good at staying wet."

I didn't understand a word of that. Still, I told her. "Thanks, Pan." Pandora lifted one of her shoulders. I turned to Sirius and quirked my eyebrow at him. "Now, if the imp blood in you is satisfied with your bout of mischief, I would like to have her back, thank you very much."

"Only if you say please."

"I wouldn't beg you for my own life, Sirius Black."

Sirius laughed like it was startled out of him. He turned to Pandora and gasped. "Can you believe her? Bloody proud. Where's that going to get you?"

"Far." Said Pandora. "Very far indeed."

I smiled at her. I felt like I was always smiling at Pandora. And when she smiled back, I felt as though she, too, was always smiling at me. It was all very confusing. I'd never had anyone smile at me like she did and I knew for certain that I've done nothing to deserve it. I didn't know what I'm supposed to do with her well-meaning and misplaced affection.

So I did nothing.

"I'm going to find Cissy. She'll appreciate me, if she isn't hanging out with that sodding boyfriend of hers." Sirius grandly decided, stepping between me and Pandora as to draw our eyes to him. He winked at Pandora, who grinned at him, and then stuck his tongue out at me. I pinched his nose with my forefinger and thumb. That got his tongue back in his mouth quickly enough.

"That 'sodding boyfriend of hers' is my cousin, Mr Black." Pandora huffed. Sirius and I were almost too preoccupied with smacking each other to hear her. "I'm the only one who's allowed to call him a sod. You, however, can call him by any other name that you think of. No doubt he's done something to deserve it."

"You're alright with me calling your cousin a git?"

"You'd be alright with me calling your cousin a git, wouldn't you?"

"Honestly, I think you could stand to do it more often. Cal could use it."

"Don't call me that." I rolled my eyes and pushed lightly at his back. "Dear Merlin, would you just leave already? You're not wanted here."

"Then I'll find somewhere I am wanted!"

"Yeah, right. Good luck with that." I snorted. Sirius frowned at me and tugged on my hair, harshly and painfully. My face set into a scowl quicker than a car crash. I whacked his hand away and hissed. "What the bloody hell was that for!?"

"Git." He said simply. He turned to Pandora. "No doubt, I'll be seeing you around. Don't forget that you can always do better than her."

Pandora smirked and said. "Why would I want to?" Something strange flashed through Sirius' face as he looked between me and Pandora. I had almost pinned down the emotion when he'd went and cleared his face up. He poked his tongue out at me again, danced out of my reach, and disappeared into the crowd. I huffed, watching him disappear, playing with the lock of hair he'd gone and yanked.

Pandora turned to me and levelled her gaze at me. "You should be nicer to him." She told me without waiting another moment. Straight for the throat. As usual. "Your cousin is a nice bloke. Better than what usually crawls out of the basements of your family."

I was instantly offended by the insult, though I knew it was true. I roped in that instinctual anger and sighed, turning away. I couldn't face Pandora's disappointment. For a dead girl, she—no no _no,_ don't go there _, don't go there_. "Probably. I mean—no, no, I know. He's good people. I could stand to be nicer to him."

"Then why the bloody hell aren't you?"

I knew the answer to that. "I don't know, Pan… can we just… move on?" But I wasn't ready for Pan to know as well. "It's… I'm tired. I don't want to be here."

Pandora's eyes softened. She reached out and placed her hand on my shoulder. Only for a second. Barely long enough for me to tense up, She reclaimed her hand and walked closer so that her arm could be entwined with mine. "Of course. We'll talk about it later though, okay? Sirius is super nice. I don't like to see you lash out at him. It…" She hesitated.

I finished for her. "It reminds you of what family I belong to, doesn't it?" Pandora winced and didn't deny it. She just started walking. I let her lead me. "I'll do better, Pan."

"Will you?" There was a cautious hope to her voice. Pandora was good people too: more than Sirius and I could ever hope to be. Naturally, she hoped for her friends to be just as good as her. It was kind of weird how much I didn't want to disappoint her. I wasn't used to it. I wasn't used to wanting approval. Unbidden, a thought rises: _you're going to die, Pandora Travers._

I beat it down.

Pandora was still talking. "I'm sure that would make things a lot easier for the both of you."

"Yeah, Pan." I muttered, nodding. Trying to ignore how much of a promise this felt like. "I'll be better."

A line of tension in her shoulders disappeared. She breathed, "Good," and then didn't say anything more.

The rest of the night was spent in comfortable, warm silence.

* * *

...

* * *

I'll realize later while I'm reading a book on blood magic from the library; what that expression on his face was.

I'll remember the unreadable look, and I'll spend half an hour deciphering it, and when I finally know, I'll close the book and heave a deep, painful sigh. For a strange second, my heart will hurt for him: My least favourite cousin, the loneliest, the heartiest, the one who always feels too damn much. He doesn't love any of us, but I know that we don't deserve something as treasured as Sirius Black's loyalty, so I can't bring myself to feel too bitter.

It's no wonder, I think, that he looks between Pandora and I with… not envy. Deeper than that. More like… longing. Yearning.

I know he will find a place where he belongs, a place where he is wanted. He will find his James Potter and his Remus Lupin and he will tear the world apart for them. That's his type of love. I remembered that I always admired that part of Sirius — back when he was a character. He didn't love James or Remus any less than each other; just differently. I never much understood how that could _be_ until I grew up with the guy. I think I know now. He has so much love to give and no one deserving to give it to.

Hogwarts is fast approaching. I tell myself to stop fretting: Sirius may not love me or particularly trust me, but we are kindred spirits. He looks at me whenever his mother starts on a tirade about muggle-born's and reads my quiet disapproval like I'm a book written only in a language he understands. We have been united on this lately. In him distancing himself from the family and its ideals, he has opened his mind to his surroundings: to me.

He may not love me, but he trusts that I am a better person than our family, even if it's not by much.

In the years to come, I'll have to trust that that will be enough. I already have too much on my plate to overly concern myself with him. As I said, Hogwarts is approaching, and with Hogwarts comes the assembling of the Marauders. Sirius will get the family he deserves.

In the meantime, I will deal with the family we currently have. Appropriately. As they deserve. Not with the corrupt system or self-righteous justice, but the way the deserve to be dealt with.

( _Peace_ , I tell myself, setting open the book on my lap. _Be patient. Persevere. They will get what is coming to them_.)

I finish my book in the candlelight. Narcissa finds me in the morning, curled into a ball on the armchair, and tucks a blanket around me. "Sleep, little sister." She'll murmur—thought you won't ever hear her admit it—and there will be a strange, uncharacteristic frown on her face. "Rest. You will need it."

* * *

...

* * *

 _"_ _Rule the first. Survive. Rule the second. Grow strong. Rule the third. Live._ _"_

* * *

...

* * *

Authors Note:

Anyway, Hogwarts next chapter! Marauders next chapter! All sorts of new characters next chapter! I'll have to start foreshadowing… unless I already have been. I can't even remember. We'll find out by the end of the story I suppose. In the meantime, I've figured out a pairing for the story. Feel free to start guessing.

Also for all those who theorized actual murder for Callidora's Herbology fascination: wow. There is an impressive amount of you. Really, what would Callidora say.


	3. welcome to the jungle

Title: fish hooks in the corners of their mouths  
Category: Books » Harry Potter  
Author: deletrear  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Summary: "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]  
Dedication: To billy & enbi & bluejanes, all of whom I would kill for, given half the chance.

.

* * *

04.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _welcome to the jungle_

* * *

.

I received my Hogwarts letter on the morning of my eleventh birthday. My mother cracked open the seal at the table and held it in one hand, narrow brown eyes flicking across the parchment. In her other hand was a half-empty glass of vermouth wine. After she was done, she threw the letter to the side and cried out for Kritter. "Dispose of that." She told the Elf, gesturing at the paper on the floor. "Then order Callidora's school supplies."

"Is that all, Mistress?" Kritter wheezed, twisting her hands nervously. "Do you require anything else of me?"

My mother sent me a scrutinizing glance. "Be sure you exclude a new trunk from your order form, Kritter. Callidora won't be needing one." Across the table from me, Narcissa's eyes widened. She carefully let a lock of hair fall from behind her ear to cover the expression from Mother, but I'd caught it. "She can use Andromeda's old trunk. It's up in the attic collecting dust. You'll find it right beside whatever is left of her potential."

Beside me, Andromeda's entire body froze.

Kritter twisted her hands together again and bowed her head. "R-Right away, Mistress."

As soon as Kritter had rushed off, Andromeda delicately placed her utensils down. Narcissa's eyes widened a fraction more. "My 'potential'?" Andromeda asked in a voice so even that I found my eyes resembling Narcissa's. "Really, Mother? Is that the best you can do?

"Oh, we mustn't get into the topic of one's 'best' at the breakfast table, Andromeda." Spoke Mother, cutting into her traditional wizarding breakfast. "It would only reflect in the most unflattering light off you."

Andromeda looked at our mother with flat brown eyes. "So you are not intending on apologizing?"

"To you?" Mother giggled at that, swirling her wine. "A Black never apologizes. We do not stoop so low. _Well_ , usually, we do not. Exceptions," She met Andromeda's eyes and took a sip from her glass. "have to be made."

"You've got to be joking." Andromeda's voice was a hiss. "You're going to disparage Dora and I and we're supposed to let you do it without apologizing?" Andromeda made a sharp gesture at me and sneered. "She's a kid. A child! She doesn't need to hear her own Mother saying rubbish like that—"

"Then perhaps the child should stop _being_ 'rubbish'." Mother sniffed.

I didn't know how I wasn't supposed to wince at that. But I knew that I shouldn't have, or I at least should have waited until Andromeda absolutely wasn't looking before reacting, because her next sentence started with the words, "You know what, you miserable bloody drunk," and ended with, "Maybe I will leave! Anywhere is better than here!" and that sudden escalation—I couldn't help but feel it was my fault.

* * *

…

* * *

I met Andromeda at the door. I'd been sitting by the umbrella rack waiting for the thumping upstairs to stop. I heard her and Mother scream at each other, a few whispered comments here, heavy thuds there, and my own mother storming back to the foyer with an expression of rage on her face. She didn't even notice me—bypassed me completely to make a pit stop at the wine rack in the kitchen. She pulled out a new bottle, cracked it open, and drank from the bottle as she stomped off to her own room.

(Kritter appeared to me at one point with a few scones in her hands. _For breakfast,_ the Elf had whispered, _Mistress Black must eat breakfast. It is being the most important meal of the day. You will be needs'ing the energy for when we visit Diagon Alley and be buying you a new trunk._

 _You'll be disobeying direct orders from Mother._

 _I'm not thinking so, Mistress. Mistress Black is being having lots of clothes, you see, and she'll be needs'ing more than just one dusty ole trunk is what I'm thinking._ _)_

The sound of Andromeda's trunk thunk-thunk-thunk'ing down the stairs warned me of her arrival. When she came around the staircase and saw me at the umbrella rack, she froze right there. She was wearing muggle clothes, which forcibly reminded me that it was the 70s out there. She was wearing high-waisted slacks made of a strange green velvet cloth. They flared at her calves. She had a pink floral turtle neck as well. She didn't even realize how ugly the outfit was. No one in the muggle world seemed to have any idea that they were dressing like a florist had thrown up on them. None.

The worst part? I couldn't even find it in me to laugh. Her eyes were still red.

There wasn't a single thing funny about that.

"You'll return, won't you?" I asked when she said nothing. "You'll come back to me and Cissy, won't you?"

Andromeda's face softened. She wiped her eyes and set her trunk down, walking towards me. She wrapped her arms around me in the warmest hug I could ever remember receiving in this Now life. "I will come back, Dora." Andromeda promised me. "I won't abandon you to that wrench."

"Then why leave at all?" I mumbled into the collar of her muggle shirt. "Stay. If you apologize to her, she'll let you—" I stopped speaking. Andromeda was sighing, as if disappointed. She pulled away from me. "What?"

Andromeda looked at me carefully. "I won't apologize to her, Dora. I have nothing to be sorry for."

"That's not what Mother thinks."

"Mother is not in her right mind. How could she be? One drop of her blood would be enough to get a vampire blackout drunk." Andromeda's lips pursed. "I don't want to be around her a moment longer than I need to be."

"All you two need to do is talk to each other, listen to each other. Maybe then…"

"Mother won't listen to me when she's drunk, Dora." Andromeda told me sternly, sniffling. "And she's never not drunk these days."

"But—isn't she calmer drunk?" I pressed, hands twitching at my side. "Do you remember how she used to be before she started drinking? Or how she was when she first started? She's so much nicer. She barely yells at all. I'm sure if you two both tried…"

Andromeda looked angry. She said, "Dora, you are a brilliantly intelligent girl. I know you know that her behaviour is wrong. Intolerable. You're smarter than her conditioning. You know that there are no excuses for her behaviour." I reluctantly shut my mouth. "So don't."

I wasn't ready to give up, however. I wasn't entirely sure how to continue fighting, either.

"You can't _leave_."

"I'm not… it isn't forever." Said Andromeda. I didn't entirely trust her resolve saying that. "I'll… It's just to the Steinfield's. For a week or two. I'm not leaving you behind."

"Yes, you are."

"No, Dora, I'm not. I'm not leaving you, okay? I'll come back for you. You have to know that I will."

But I wasn't too sure.

"Really, Andy? You're running away to the Steinfield's?" Narcissa's voice said out of fucking nowhere. I hadn't even realized she was _there_. Andromeda hadn't either, by the way she whirled around. Narcissa's arms were crossed. She had a face like there was an unpleasant smell underneath her nose. "I suppose you think they're more nurturing than Mother?"

Andromeda relaxed, then tensed, then pretended that she wasn't unnerved by the mere presence of her younger sister. It wasn't working all that well. "Cissy, there are terrorist cells more nurturing than our mother." She rolled her eyes. "If you're here to insult me, I'll just tell you what I told Mother."

"I'm not here to…" Narcissa's nostrils flared. She suddenly looked very, very frustrated. "What is it with you two?" She snarled. I could tell the explosive emotion startled Andromeda. She flinched and went silent, like she would if she were put in front of our father. Narcissa ran her fingers through her fair hair. "Don't you two get it? There's something foul brewing on the horizon and you two are completely blind to it. Gallivanting around as if things could possibly be okay! Don't be so naïve!"

Andromeda narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking about." Narcissa made a frustrated noise. "No, Cissy, I need you to talk to me. What's brewing? Is this the same thing that has Bella?"

"Of course it is!" Narcissa hissed. "What else could it be? There's something coming. Now isn't the time to rebel or pick the wrong side. Stop drawing attention to yourselves!"

Andromeda took it all in with a straight face. "What's watching, Cissy?"

Narcissa blinked. "What?"

Andromeda repeated herself. "What's watching? Who's attention are we supposed to be avoiding? Can you tell me?" Narcissa was silent, stubbornly so. "What, you can't even say a name?" Narcissa's lip curled down a bit more. Andromeda shook her head. "I'm not saying you're wrong but if things are really that troubling… what better time is there to rebel?"

"This is the safe side." Narcissa replied instantly.

"Doesn't mean it's the right side." Andromeda sniffed. "Whatever it is that's supposedly coming… It'll have to wait for me to finish my rebellious stage before dawning. Maybe I'll already be living with the Steinfield's by then. If I'm lucky."

"This isn't something to laugh about! You don't know—"

"And neither do _you_ , Cissy." Andromeda interrupted. "But hey! Once you figure out the dirty details, you tell 'em to me, okay? If need be, I'll laugh about this entire thing in the Big Bad's face if it'll convince Mother to leave me the bloody hell alone."

"This is bigger than your issues with Mother!" Narcissa stressed. "How can you — how are you two so blind and deaf to everything going around us? The frequent gatherings? The uniforms? Bella is going insane and you two aren't even noticing—"

Andromeda's eyebrows dropped. Her fist clenched around the handle of her trunk. "I know Bella better than anyone in this room. If you think I haven't been noticing what is happening to her, you're dead wrong."

"Then clearly, your only flaw is failing to understand the gravity of this situation."

"Fancy words, Cissy. Learn that from your boyfriend?" Andromeda spat, a sudden venom to her words. I thought that she must be really upset to let her temper get the best of her — a temper that all us sisters had, a temper that Andromeda had a better handle on than any of us. "Or did you learn it from Zabini?"

Narcissa tensed, eyes blowing wide in panic. "H-How do you know about—"

"I'm a good sister. I pay attention to your lives." Andromeda sucked in a deep breath and calmed herself down. Narcissa was doing the exact opposite of calming down. "You hear that? I pay attention. I know what's going on with all of you, don't think for a moment that my own dramas have stopped me from looking in on you. You especially, Cissy."

"Zabini — how do you know about, when did you find out? What do you know?"

Andromeda's mouth softened. "I'm not going to… Cissy, come on. I wouldn't ever hold that against you. How could you think that I would?"

"You know why." Narcissa swallowed. "How did you find out?"

Andromeda looked at her. She sighed. She admitted, "I overheard you two speaking an empty corridor. It was easy to put together the pieces once I started looking. Don't worry, no one else heard, and I'm the only one who… knows." She quickly said in response to the almost primal fear on Narcissa's face. Andromeda suddenly looked older beyond her years. "I wondered for such a long time why you never told me, you know. I mean, you kept it a secret from your own sister? From me? … Why didn't you think to trust me with this?"

I…

For the first time in my life, I didn't understand what was going on.

This was… really new for me.

"It isn't like I can trust my dear sisters to be consistent with their behaviour these days." Narcissa answered hollowly. Andromeda winced. I think I might have as well.

"Taken into consideration… why do you remain under Mother and Father's heel like you do? Wouldn't it be easier for you both if you were… unaffiliated with this lifestyle? You know they'll never—"

"Of course I know that. You think I don't — that I haven't — that we haven't thought about — but we can't. It isn't smart. Zabini agrees. We can't risk it. There's too much danger in the unknown, Andy."

"And continuing the affair in your positions is?" Narcissa was mutinously silent. She was bestowing upon Andromeda the most scathing look I had ever seen on her. "Cissy… why don't we talk anymore? We used to be able to talk about everything under the sun. Don't you remember?" Andromeda was pleading. I didn't even know why. I wasn't following this new conversation thread at all. "We used to be so happy and innocent—"

"I don't know what memories you're revisiting," Narcissa said, frostily. "But all I remember from my childhood is the way her breath reeked of wine as she screamed at me for reading the romance books _you_ gave to me." Andromeda's face was pale. "Your memory must be significantly longer than mine, Andromeda, to remember such a time when I was happy."

There wasn't a single dark-haired Black in the room that didn't wince at the full name.

"Cissy…" Andromeda's voice cracked on the name. Narcissa wasn't giving up any ground. It was with a wet sniff that Andromeda's face settled into one of typical Black stubbornness. She almost looked like our mother. A kinder version, perhaps. Andromeda had always been composed of the best parts of our parents. "… I can't stay here. I'm sorry, but I can't."

The betrayal on Narcissa's face was so raw that I could see Andromeda's resolve fracture. What I could also see was Andromeda's resolve build itself back up, stronger than ever.

Oh, I remember thinking. Oh, she's really leaving.

I felt like someone had shovelled my organs out and dumped them on the floor.

I think Narcissa might have felt the same. Her entire face fell. Like Andromeda's resolve, it rebuilt itself, her face stonier and more unfeeling than it was last time. "Fine!" She sneered. "If you want to be foolish, then go ahead, be foolish! See if I weep any tears when I'm visiting your gravestone!"

I was surprised by the vehemence in her tone. I think, for the first time, I realized just how much Narcissa was hearing. How much she was seeing. I had been thinking that because of my excess knowledge that I was better off than the rest, that I was not blind, that there was no wool pulled over my eyes. Thinking that I was better than them, perhaps, because I was not disillusioned. I read the undertones in conversations and saw the darkness for what it was. Dinner parties? No, strategy meetings. I never had to wonder what went on behind the warded doors. I knew. I thought I was the only one who knew.

I had not counted on Narcissa's keen perception.

I had forgotten her intelligence.

I had underestimated Narcissa's sense of self-preservation.

(I thought to myself, Never again will I be making that mistake.)

Narcissa was not fooled. She was reading this narrative as the horror it was. She did not see an adventure or an opportunity. She saw a nightmare, a war, something foul brewing on the horizon, and she had turned her mind into a bunker. She was huddled inside, waiting for the bombs to pass her over.

… She was only fifteen.

But so was Bella when she received that mark.

Age didn't mean a damn thing to pure-bloods.

Narcissa stormed off without a backwards glance. She sounded distressed. I watched her go with a hurricane pressing against the inside of my breast. I started at the unexpected hand that landed on my shoulder. I looked to the side and up to see Andromeda's kind eyes staring at me, her heart-shaped face framed by soft ringlets. I thought, _Who could upset an angel like you?_

She spoke softly. "Go after her, Dora."

"But you'll be gone when I get return."

"She needs you more than I do."

"You both need me as much as the other," I protested. "We're sisters. We'll always need each other."

"That's true," Her bottom lip trembled. "That's — that's very true indeed. I'll always need you and you'll always need me, right?"

"Right."

"Will you promise me?" Andromeda asked. The sadness was back. She sent a glance to the stairs Narcissa had ran up and I thought I could pinpoint the exact moment her heart suffered another fracture. "That you will always need me?"

I swallowed. I placed my hand over the hand on my shoulder. I squeezed it. "Since the beginning. Till the end. Always and forever, sister."

Andromeda tried to smile at me. She mostly ended up crying at me. "Good. That's— _thank you_ , Dora. You're… very strong, you know? It's your eleventh birthday, Bella's disappeared into thin air, I'm—I'm running away, and Cissy is feeling—feeling so very alone right now—and here you are, the birthday girl, promising me that you'll always need me." I was silent, unsure of how to respond. Andromeda's face crumbled again. "I'm sorry that we made you grow up so quickly."

"I feel like I've always been this big."

"That does not comfort me like I think you intended it to."

"I don't know about intending to comfort you. I'm just telling you the truth."

"And that is the truth? That you feel like you've always been this 'big'?"

"I have." I nodded. "And you've always felt bigger. I think you always will be."

"You're saying that… I'll always be your big sister, right? That's what you're saying?" I shrugged and nodded at the same time. That was kind of what I was saying. Andromeda's breath caught in her chest. All of a sudden, I was being swallowed up in her arms. I did not mind so much. Andromeda gave very good hugs. I couldn't help but think that Narcissa wouldn't be so upset if she were in Andromeda's arms like I was.

"Andy?" I asked. "Are you okay?"

She sounded watery again. "I am going to miss you very much, Dora. Please do not doubt that."

I didn't like the sound of that at all. "No you won't." I said sternly and pulled back to look Andromeda in the eye. "You're not going to miss me at all, because you're gonna come back before you can start to."

"Is that so?" Andromeda was wiping her eyes. Futilely, if you asked me.

"Yup."

"Would you have me promise?"

I shook my head. "I don't need you to. I know you will." I had to trust that she would return. I wasn't sure how to survive this house without her there with me. "I trust you, Andy."

And like that, I was being hugged again. Only this time, I wrapped my arms around her middle and hugged back.

* * *

…

* * *

I went to Narcissa's room after Andromeda had left only to find the wards around her door active. Child's play, I thought, and placed my hand on the door. With a great, great deal of concentration, I forced a tibit of rowdy magic out of my fingertips. I could feel it connect with the magic of the wards. It spider webbed across the not-wood of the door, fracturing across the surface of it. I was gentle as I deconstructed the magic of the wards, leaving them in working condition so that I could restructure them later. I doubted Narcissa would appreciate me tearing her wards down and leaving her unable to magically lock her door after I left.

I pushed, and pushed, and _pushed_ , and, because I was less than competent with wandless magic, pushed again.

The wards snapped softly under the pressure. Narcissa's door unlocked with a soft 'click' and swung open on its hinges.

"Cissy?" I lingered in the doorway with one hand on the door. "Cissy, are you okay?"

"Go away." Her thick voice snarled at me.

"No." I decided. I didn't know what the hell was wrong with my family. Could none of us be happy all at once? Was it impossible for harmonious living in this house? "Not until you tell me what's wrong. Is it Andy leaving? I'm upset about that too."

"Merlin," She huffed. "It's not just that. Andy leaving is the least of our worries. You know that, right? Or I guess you don't. None of you seem to know what's going on. It's — it's — I can't deal with it anymore."

Merlin, I hated a lot of things about my family, but our ability to feel emotion was a thing that I resented more often than not. Black's felt everything all at once. We did not get angry, we raged. We did not get sad, we despaired. So when I say that Narcissa's voice was weak, it wasn't anything of the sort. It was hollow. Wrecked. Hopeless. There was absolutely nothing to it at all. Barren.

"Tell me." I asked of her, suddenly feeling as if I was throwing duct tape over a rift caverns deep. I was fumbling. I took a single step inside the room and let that desperation rise, let that fear settle in the back of my throat like something red and mildew, and begged of my sister: "Tell me _what is going on_ with you."

Narcissa was silent. I was so sure that she would deny me that I scrambled for other excuses. What would I do when she told me to leave? Would I ask her questions? How are you? What is upsetting you? Oh, Andromeda is drifting and we don't recognize Bellatrix anymore? And how does that make you feel? If you could do it again, what would you do differently? Would I sit there and talk at her until she felt compelled to respond? Would I ask her about Zabini? Would I ask her about the whispers and movements in the shadows?

What was I going to do?

Narcissa's voice broke through my anxious trance. It was like her voice grabbed my around the collar and yanked me from the depths of my mind and plopped her right in front of her. It sliced through the fog of my mind and commanded my attention. Narcissa had always been good at wrapping her presence around a room. That voice said to me, "Come inside, Dora. Close the door behind you."

I went inside.

I closed the door behind me.

* * *

…

* * *

Predictably, she didn't end up telling me anything, but she let me sit next to her as she pretend she wasn't crying. Narcissa wasn't the type to get physical when she was upset (if anything, I think she retreated further into her shell) but she allowed me to hold her hand. We didn't speak of it. When she was finished, she disappeared into her bathroom for an hour and a half and returned impeccably put-together. We returned downstairs together. On the way down, she promised that she would go with me to get my wand.

I remember once when Bella was eleven and she returned from her trip to Ollivander's with a walnut wand in her hand. She promised me, young as I was, that she would be there with me when I received my wand. She had wanted to see my face, I think. What kind of face I would make when I held my wand and understood the word 'completion' for the first time in my life. I remembered the promise.

It didn't end up happening. At least, not with her.

(I think I preferred Cissy, in the end.)

September 1 was approaching at break-neck speed. Andy returned after a month at the Steinfield's, looking very brown and very comfortable with herself. It turned out that the Steinfield's lived on a farm house where they made their living harvesting juice from Horklump's for healing potions. Summer was the time when the Horklump juice was the most potent, so she had spent most of her time outside in the heat, learning the value of hard work as she milked mushroom-like beasts and beat off hungry gnomes with a stick (the stick, in this case, not being her wand).

Andy didn't talk much about her time with the Steinfield's apart from mentioning the farming and gnome-throwing she partook in. We all knew this to mean she was hiding something, but Andy was remarkably stubborn sometimes. She refused to tell us.

Eventually, Cissy refused to keep on asking.

With my mother snide comments about my lack of magical ability, Bella's persistent non-presence, and the ever growing tension between Andy and Cissy… Well, I wasn't even surprised to find myself running away to Grimmauld Place, of all the houses to go to.

This had the unfortunate consequence of putting me and Sirius frequently in the same room, and perhaps the most unfortunate part of that was the fact that we were sort of, maybe, kind of, beginning to be… friends. At least, enough that he ended up visiting me of his own free will.

I still hate him, of course.

(Oh, don't give me that look. I do.) (( _Really_.))

* * *

…

* * *

Here is something that I knew the moment I met Sirius and yet never thought to prepare for when I decided to invite him over to my house for a quiet day in: Sirius Black did not like quiet days in. He had the attention span of a pre-teen boy. I enjoyed the activities of a sixteen-year-old introvert girl with depression. I should have seen it coming from a mile away.

And yet, the horse noises he was persistently making from the couch next to me were genuinely surprising in their existence.

"Morgana's _braids_ , Sirius, could you shut up for a moment? I'm trying to read."

"You're always reading, you should be sick and tired of it by now."

"There's nothing else to do besides read in this dreadful place." I snapped, tucking my book closer to me protectively. "Besides, learning can be… fun."

"Er, _that's_ a lie. I've tried reading before and it isn't quite what you make it out to be."

"Reading and learning aren't the same thing." I told him, shaking my head. "You don't need to read to learn. There are a lot of different ways for the human brain to retain knowledge. Kinaesthetic learning is a particular one that I think would help you better understand your studies — not that you're struggling with them in the first place, but it could make things more entertaining for you. There is aural learning for those with music intelligence —"

The sigh exploded from Sirius' chest. He threw his head over the back of his armchair. " _Boring_! See, this is exactly what I mean. You don't know how to do anything fun. Why don't you want to visit the kitchens and hassle Kreacher like a normal person?"

I made a mental note of my place in the book. The book heavily featured mentions of Gregor Mendel and theoretically crossbreeding magical plants. If you'd asked me about such a thing in my first life, I would have gladly redirected you to the Animal Crossing games and washed my hands of the theory. With the addition of magical means, however, the creation of new magical plants seemed, if not an accomplishment waiting on the horizon for wizarding kind, theoretically sound. It was an interesting read. I had been enjoying it thoroughly, making notes of advanced Herbology words to look into in the future, quite happy to struggle along with the complex ideas the author was talking about. One day I would understand the contents of the book without needing a dictionary, and it would be a great day indeed.

And then Sirius had kicked down the door screaming about how dreadfully bored he was, and that I simply had to entertain him, and all sorts of nonsense that made it hard to concentrate on the debate about whether magical plants had magical cores that needed to be taken into consideration when crossbreeding them.

I turned to him. "And what would you consider fun, Sirius?"

Sirius let out a drawn out sigh as he thought.

"Do you wanna put a couple Elf Heads in Regulus' bed?"

My scoff may have been closer to a shriek than I intended. "That's disgusting! And cruel!"

"I was kidding!" Sirius jumped to say. "I wouldn't do that to Reg!"

"How could you even make me think about it, you twat!"

"I'm not — I was kidding — pfft, sorry, sorry, I'm not laughing at you, it's just — your face!" What. an. idiot. I clicked my tongue at him and aggressively turned back to my book.

He just continued to laugh.

* * *

…

* * *

The peaceful silence did not last long, as I suspected it would not.

"Pandora and Callidora."

I sighed. "Yes, Siri?"

"No, I'm not talking to you." He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm thinking out loud."

"Well, you let me know how that goes."

"I am." He huffed. "Don't you get it? Pandora and Callidora. There's something about those names..."

I stared blankly at him.

He looked irritated with how long it was taking me to catch on. Or maybe at how long it was taking him to catch on.

"Pandora. and. Callidora." He repeated himself with the air of someone making a grand revelation. He twisted his body towards me and stretched out as far as his body could to shake my shoulder. "Holy shite."

"What, Sirius."

"I just realized. Pandora and Callidora. Cal, are you listening? That's why you two get along so well. I figured it out. It rhymes. Geddit, Cal? Your names… they rhyme."

"Pan likes me for reasons unrelated to our rhyming names." I was pretty sure, at least.

Sirius shot me a suspicious look. "Are you sure? Have you ever asked? A lie by omission isn't technically a lie, after all, and this type of thing doesn't come up in casual conversation."

"A lie by omission is technically still a lie, so that's another point that you're wrong about, and for your information, I have asked." Of course I had. Pandora was a very nice person. I still wasn't convinced of her reasons for continuing to be my friend. As soon as I thought I could get away with it without her thinking I was weirdo, I'd asked her. "She thinks I'm fascinating."

"Fascinating." Sirius snorted. "Oh, I don't bloody think so. You're about as 'fascinating' as dirt. Forget omission—you know she has to be lying, right? Straight up lying? To your face, even?"

"Pandora doesn't lie."

"Everyone lies. She probably lies less than, say, Cissy, but she definitely lies. If she's told you otherwise, it was to throw you off from catching onto the blatant lies she's already told you. Like, say, thinking that you're fascinating." Sirius said flippantly, making jerky movements with his hand. "Pandora seems the type to lie if it'll spare your feelings."

I sighed deeper than I imagined I would be when I started my day off. "Well." I started, only to come up short with words. He was right. Pandora was the type to lie to spare my feelings, although I knew she hadn't been when she answered my question. Pandora had a rather… unique way if looking at things. If she thought I was fascinating, she was clearly seeing something in me that I wasn't aware of. "Well… you're right. She would do that."

"See?" Sirius slumped back comfortably. He stared at the ceiling and smiled. "It rhymes."

I shook my head and returned to my book.

* * *

…

* * *

"Hey. Hey. Cal. Cal. Caaaaaaaal. Dora. Doooooora. Cal. Caaaaal. Caaalidoooooooraaaaa. Hey. Heeeeyyy. Oi. Oi oi, Cal. Cal-li-dor-a Ly-san-dra Bla-ck the Thiiiiiiird."

I gritted my teeth and hissed, "What?"

"Oh, nothing." Sirius responded promptly. "Just bored."

We had already gone through this five times in the past hour. Going back to my book and ignoring him obviously wasn't helping him. I asked. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you bored?"

Sirius shrugged. "Because."

"Because of what?"

"Because of… stuff."

"Stuff? What type of stuff?"

"… Things."

"Yes, but what type of things?"

"Stuff."

Right. That was that, then. I slammed my book shut and stood up. "You wanna help me clean up the garden?" I asked testily.

Sirius rolled off his sofa instantly. He landed with a heavy thud on his front but pushed himself to his feet quickly. He was at the door faster than I was. "Oh, thank Merlin. Yes, yes I very much do." He breathed, and then dashed out of the room.

I listened to his footsteps passively for a moment. Then I called, "Watch out on the steps! Regulus dropped some gillyweed on there this morning, so they'll be quite" — there was a squeak, a yell, and then the successive _thumpthumpthumpthump_ of a large, fleshy object tumbling down the stairs — "slippery!"

My only reply was his pitiful groan.

After Sirius had finished cleaning up his bruised pride and I'd changed into my gardening clothes, we went out into the greenhouse. I tried to explain to him the names of the plants and their unique qualities. Most magical plants didn't come into being without an aspect of them you couldn't harvest and use for some sort of ingredient or paste. I showed him where the defensive plants were, and then, in another plot, where the offensive ones were. I even showed him the medicinal plants — they were the least aggressive, so I figured it'd be okay for him to mess around with them and not have his hand taken off for it.

I should have known that wouldn't be enough for him.

Hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers, Sirius groused. "These plants are boring. Can we go back to the one that nearly bit my head off?"

"You want to go back to the plant that could decapitate you if you stood within five feet of it." I sighed. Resigned, I lead him back to the section of aggressive plants. Naturally. You'd best put on some protective gloves and an apron on then."

"What? Why?"

"It's around two? Some of the plants are pretty punctual with when they like to be groomed or harvested. I have a few ripe fruits to pick. Not all of them like to be picked though," Sirius' eyes were blank. I clicked my tongue. "Defence mechanisms, Sirius. Some of them have defence mechanisms."

"Oh. Why didn't you just say so?"

"Just—put on the gloves. I should have some old ones in that cupboard over there. They won't do as good a job protecting you as the ones I'm wearing would, but you won't be needing them to anyway."

"Why wouldn't I be? I'll be standing in the line of fire. Forefronts. Front line fighter, I am."

"But you don't know what you're doing."

"That will only serve to make my inevitable triumph over you all the more rewarding." He puffed out his chest and looked around the greenhouse. "So, which plant am I charming first!"

It would be very fun indeed to watch that optimism strain from his eyes and be replaced by terror. I told him one last time, "Better put on the safety gear, Sirius."

"I won't need it." He assured me.

I grinned. "Your funeral." He scoffed at my pessimism. Unfortunately for him, however, in this situation, it was actually plain realism.

An hour later, Sirius was covered in superficial wounds; you know, a little welt or ten here, a thorn for each fingertip, dirt up his nostrils. The usual stuff. One of my cacti had tried to plug him full of spikes but he'd gotten lucky and ducked in time to avoid the new body modifications. The material around his elbow had been shredded from when we snatched a pod from the Snargaluff plant. He wasn't doing too hot.

Me, being smart, caught pretty much all attacks with my elbow-length gardening gloves. Dragon hide, of course, because when you had money, it made sense to spend it on the best of material. Sirius wore my studded Occamy gloves and that was about it.

He looked exhausted and distracted by the time we finished with the offensive plants. It was three-thirty when we moved onto harvesting from the defensive plants. I refilled my supply of moly and shrivelfig. I checked the status of my Puffapod's (still no success in stopping their automatic blooming when in contact with a solid object), the self-fertilizing shrub (could use some work, but I was getting closer to figuring out how to make one survive longer than a month) and my Bubotuber's (ready for squeezing soon).

Sirius had been silent for long enough that I was able to go about my daily routine as if he weren't there in the first place. I was only when I was cleaning the plot of weeds did he speak up. "You'll be good in Herbology, I reckon." I started at his abrupt voice. He was staring at me, but not really… _looking_. "The class, I mean. You'll smash it. I'm pretty sure that thorny plant that attacked us for the pod isn't meant to be handled by an eleven year old."

"The Snargaluff?"

"Yeah, that one." Sirius rubbed his nose. "Hogwarts'll be easy for you."

I watched him. I wondered if that was what I looked like when I was lost in my thoughts. "Did you suddenly forget my ineptitude for offensive spells or something? I'm going to scraping the bottom of the barrel, you realize."

"Not in this subject though. Reckon you'll be one of the best the school's ever seen."

"I—that's a bit of an exaggeration."

"Eh." Murmured Sirius. "Don't think so. Think I'm right, and you're good at this, even if it's boring as all hell."

I was suddenly scowling again. "And just when I was starting to like you." He sent me a distracted half-smile and shifted to lean his elbow on a nearby plot plant, lifting his hand to absently pet at the leaves, rubbing them between his forefinger and thumb.

I set down my trowel. "Hey, are you—" okay is how I intended to finish that sentence, but then my eyes followed his hands, and noticed what colour the leaf was. Brown. Furry. Dust collecting at the edges. My eyes widened. "I wouldn't touch that if I were you."

"What? Why? What does it do?" Sirius leaped back from the plant, eyeing the leaves with something akin to betrayal in his eyes. He looked a lot more present in his body than he did a second ago. "I touched its leaves. Tell it to me quick, Healer: Am I going to die?"

I laughed despite myself, and then tried to pretend that I hadn't. By Sirius' smug grin, I didn't succeed. Clearing my throat, I leaned to the side and started to explain. "It's leaves aren't poisonous but they have a tendency to squirt acidic mucus from the bud every few hours. It should be due soon. I have a few of them spread out around the garden, they're good for the soil." I pointed at the green and brown bud in the middle of the flower.

Sirius peered closer, then seemed to remember himself and reeled back from the offending flower. "What do I do if it squirts on me?"

"Well, definitely do not wipe the mucus on your clothes. It'll stick to the fabric and is pretty much impossible to wash out— _Kritter_ couldn't figure out the trick to eliminating plant acid." I lectured. "If it touches your skin, it'll burn for a bit, but it isn't strong enough to eat through human skin cells, so you'll be fine. There'll just be a rash."

"So nothing bad will happen to me?"

"No, Sirius, nothing bad will happen to you. Your robes, maybe, but you? You'll be the same old git even if it squirts on you."

"Is the rash contagious?"

"Well, yes — but the most annoying part about it is how damn itchy it is. That's about it. Plus, it's really ghastly to look at." Sirius tilted his head, eyes going cloudy. I didn't have to ask what he was thinking. "No, you cannot wipe your grubby hand on me to spread the rash. It won't work."

"Well, why the hell not?"

"I've been hit with that enough times that my body has built up an immunity to it. I'll go red for, like, five hours and then it'll disappear."

"There goes that plan then." Sirius squinted at the plant. "Would it really do that to me?"

"It's easier on your body than Withersap pus is." I answered.

"The — the what?"

"Withersap pus, Sirius. You heard that right. Pus."

"I really can't understand your draw to Herbology."

"I'm not asking you to. Besides," I turned back to my weeds, "knowing you, you'll find it much more appealing to transfigure a live rat into a silver goblet. I'll never understand how that wouldn't make you uncomfortable."

"There's no guarantee that you'll learn that in Transfiguration."

"I'm a True Seer."

"Right hilarious, you are. Next you'll be telling me that you're secretly a squib."

I giggled. "Might be," I mused, yanking up a weed and dusting the ants and dirt off it. "What would you know about it anyway?"

We continued our easy-going banter (which was the beginning of a sentence I honestly never suspected would be said in relation to me and Sirius) while I worked and he loitered. Eventually, my labour demanded more than twenty-five percent of my attention and Sirius' mind resumed turning inwards. After a couple of minutes or thirty, we were back to walking around in companionable silence. Apart from me smearing a few healing pus and saps on Sirius' superficial wounds, we scarcely interacted at all.

If only if had been like this when I was reading, I thought. I had enjoyed my book quite a bit. I didn't fancy finishing it in the low-light of my room tonight, but I was beginning to realize that I didn't have much of a choice anymore. Befriending Sirius (which I hadn't done) was the equivalent of sacrificing all of my free time on a shrine dedicated to goddess Aergia.

"Hey." Sirius murmured. It sounded like he was talking to himself so I didn't pause in my work. I only turned my attention outwards when he raised his voice. "Oi, Cal."

"Yes?"

"Do you…" He trailed off. I thought he sounded frustrated.

"Do I…?"

"Do you… ever wonder…"

"Wonder about… what? A wedding on a space station? What would happen to a werewolf on the moon? What Cissy would look like with Bella's hair? What Bella would look like with Cissy's hair? I wonder about a lot of things. You'll have to be specific."

"The mental imagery of Bella with Cissy's hair is terrible, thanks for nothing." Sirius answered promptly. "But I did have a specific wonder I wanted to ask you about."

"Then please, ponder aloud." Willing to bet it would take another long while for Sirius to find his words (or his courage to speak the words) I went back to my work. Staring at him probably wouldn't help the creative juices churning. Pandora often continued talking at me when I disappeared inside my head. She found my subconscious replies amusing. Apparently I was 'better when I didn't think before I spoke'. "I'll be waiting."

Sirius hummed.

I cut into the swell of a root and milked it of as much sap as it was willing to give me.

"Do you ever worry…" I looked up, "about Hogwarts? How different it'll be from here?" He asked. He was staring vaguely to the right of me, looking uncomfortable at the fact that he was opening up. Figures. "We've — we've practically spent our entire lives at home. Hogwarts… it will be completely different. We won't be prepared for it at all. Isn't that… scary? For you?"

"Sounds more like you're the one scared to me." I said.

Sirius sent me a scowl. "… If you're not going to take this seriously—" He said, and I could tell he was genuinely worried about this, if only because he didn't take the opportunity for the obligatory name pun.

"Well," I dusted off my hands and settled them on my knees. I wondered what to possibly say. I didn't have a clue. Hogwarts? Frightening? If anything, it was a safe place from the oncoming war. I'd spend all my holidays at Hogwarts if I had the opportunity. I couldn't wait to leave behind my home life. I told him: "I don't know what house you've been living in for the past, what, eleven years? but home hasn't exactly been a light and breezy experience for me."

Sirius blinked, looking a bit like someone coming to after being sucker punched into the jaw. "More stressful and deathy." Sirius agreed, sounding thoughtful.

I nodded. "Right, exactly. What could Hogwarts possibly have that's more intimidating than Lady Black?"

"Seven generations of Slytherins?" He suggested. "Could be trouble."

"Slytherins don't go after their own." I reminded him. "They're always a united front."

Sirius made a face. "Yeah, I know that." He muttered, sniffing. He mumbled something under his breath.

"Honestly, what's so frightening about Hogwarts? It's just… school." I cringed myself. School. Oh, Merlin.

I had been a good student Before, of an above-average intelligence and ordinary looks. I wasn't bullied and I wasn't flunking. Nothing particularly exciting, but enough to carry me through to Grade Eleven with little effort on my part. I hadn't failed a class since I was seven. But this was a magical school, and as I'd found out, mainstream magic and I weren't close friends.

I grimaced at the thought of failing a subject.

Just the idea of it was distasteful.

"It's not 'just school'. It's — that's the corner stone for the rest of your life, isn't it? Everyone judges you based on what House you were sorted into. What if me being a — a Slytherin… makes things hard on me?"

"During school or after it?"

"Both. You know that… Slytherin doesn't have a great reputation. And the wizards that are sorted there — they aren't… they're like Mother. I don't want to be surrounded by pre-teen Walburga Black's, you know?" Sirius sounded… very confused. I wonder who he had this conversation with in a timeline where I was not born. Andromeda, the Slytherin Head Girl? Narcissa, a Slytherin Prefect? Did he share his concerns with his dutiful pure-blooded little brother?

Did he talk about it with anyone at all?

There was a twinge in my stomach at the idea of Sirius festering in his own doubts and dwindling self-confidence. He was only eleven. This was heavy stuff for a pre-teen boy. Once again, I thought of how odd my new life was. I still struggled with missing my brothers every day that I had forgotten all about the 'family' I had in this life. Sirius needed me, for a reason I didn't fully understand. I couldn't say that I needed him, but I was sixteen. He was the eldest child but still only eleven. I was… probably the closest thing to a best friend he really had.

I didn't like that at all. Not because I hated Sirius enough to want to leave him stranded. I was just… it was an unfair relationship, you know? I wasn't really eleven. I was sixteen and eleven. Both ages at once, and yet, decades older than he was. We didn't have the same thoughts, feelings, mindset. There was a generation gap between us that only one half of us was aware of. I didn't have the first idea how to talk with an eleven year old.

"Afraid of extended exposure to Lady Black?" I ended up saying, unsure of how to proceed.

Sirius' brow twitched. "I don't want to become her." He told me hotly. "I don't — I don't want them planning out my life. Aren't you afraid of that? That you'll grow up to be exactly like your parents? Like your dad?"

I flinched. "Gee, there's a dark thought."

"Right. Right, it is, isn't it? And going to Hogwarts — isn't that sort of where it started for them? Being who they are? Surrounded by older kids that they idolized and modelled themselves after? And aren't all of those kids in Slytherin? And — it's like — no one really… likes Mum or Dad. They just… tolerate them because they're powerful and pure. I don't — I don't want to have allies, you know? I want friends. Don't you?"

I squinted at the boy. "I — well, of course I do, everyone wants friends — "

"And being sorted into Slytherin," He continued, arms starting to wave wildly. "It's — you don't get friends, you get allies — so it's kind of, I guess, it doesn't really sound like a life I want for myself. It sounds like a life Mum wants for me."

"And… you think that sort of life… starts in Slytherin?"

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I think."

"And you don't want to be like Lady Black?"

"No." Sirius said. Emphatically.

"Then…" I hesitated. Shot a glance to the side. There was no magical answer written in the soil. Just crooked plants, veiny petals, acid-mucus-shooting-buds. I was going to have to tackle this on my own. I turned back to a very distressed looking Sirius. "… Why don't you just… not get sorted into Slytherin?"

Sirius looked at me for a really long time. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. He hissed through his teeth and threw his head back, groaning. I jumped at the sudden sound. Snapping his head back down, he glared and yelled. "Come _on_ , Cal! Take this seriously!"

I huffed, lifting my nose haughtily. "I am taking this serious! That was a serious suggestion!"

"How could that be a serious suggestion? 'Why don't you just not get sorted into Slytherin?' Mother would murder me!"

"She would not." I shot back, not entirely confident of my own words. "She'd be — disappointed, maybe, but you'd — you'd be happy, wouldn't you?"

"Huh?"

"Well, wouldn't you?" I pressed, faking confidence in my words. Best not let him see how unsure I was. He'd be on it like a bloodhound. "You think you'll be unhappy with Slytherin? Don't be a Slytherin."

"But." Sirius paused. He was back to looking dumbfounded. "Mother…?"

"She'd be — fine. Maybe."

Sirius' eyebrows hitched up. "My mother is a clinical psychopath."

I winced. "Who — who bloody cares what Lady Black thinks? Do you?"

"Not really." Sirius replied, less frantic than before.

"That's right. You don't. So what's stopping you from running off and getting sorted into — into Hufflepuff?"

"Respect for myself, primarily." He answered right away. I surprised myself by feeling a hot flash of offense at his words. Once a Hufflepuff, always a Hufflepuff. Sirius blew out a hot breath through his teeth and planted (ha!) his elbow in the dirt of the potted plant next to him. I thought about warning him that he was going to stain his robes permanently if he didn't move. I very carefully did not do that. "I think I get what you mean."

"You do?"

"Do what makes me happy, right?"

"Or what makes you comfortable." I shrugged, avoiding eye contact like a jackass. "I don't think anyone in our family has a solid — _and non-violent_ — idea of what makes them happy. So until you're lucky enough to figure that out, go with what makes you comfortable." Of course, comfortability to a certain extent could be rather detrimental to growth, as my Before life in the throes of depression could attest to, but I didn't think now was the right time to bring that up. Maybe when he was older.

Sirius was staring at me with a look I couldn't understand. I had an inkling that it was the way I sometimes looked at Pandora when she said something ingenious and yet, completely obvious.

(I had an inkling that I was rapidly becoming the Pandora to Sirius' Callidora. And I wasn't sure I liked it.)

"… Yeah." Sirius breathed, eyes wide. "Yeah… you're right. You're — holy shite — you're actually right about something."

I pursed my lips and tilted my head. "Mmm, not the proper way to react, I think."

"Do you say things that make sense like this all of the time?"

"I mean… occasionally. It's been known to happen."

"How? Who did you learn it from?

"Either Andy or Pan. It's still in the air." It still stumped me. For a ten year old, Pan could say some seriously unorthodox yet strangely wise shit. "You could stand to tone down the surprise by the way."

"I really cannot."

"No, you really could."

"I'm just, it's so great, you know? Because you're this empty-hearted witch, and, and you have this cold, lifeless exterior—"

"Alright, Sirius."

"—and I would swear in front of god himself that when you were introduced to Manny when he was a kid, he burst into tears as soon as he saw your face—"

That was actually true. That didn't mean I liked to be reminded. "That's enough now."

"—and honestly, you're about as entertaining as the earthworms you like to play with on a daily basis, like, come on, right?—"

"Sirius, honest—oh no." _Oh no_. I recognized that soft grinding sound. I looked at the plant belonging to the pot Sirius was leaning on. The buds were opening and swelling. I looked at Sirius and said, " _Move_."

He said, "What?" Wrong response. The buds swelled as far as the could stretch and then, all at once, deflated. A yellow burst of mucus shot out of the bud and splattered against Sirius' face. I said it again—" _Oh no."—_ as Sirius positively howled, swiping the mucus off with his hand and staring at the slimy yellow liquid. He made another high pitched scream and frantically wiped his hand off on his robes.

I reminded him: "What was the one thing I told you not to do if you were hit with that plant, Sirius?!"

Sirius made this guttural sound of pure irritation. "DON'T WIPE IT ON MY CLOTHES!"

"And what did you just do?"

"I WIPED IT ON MY CLOTHES." He shouted, then rubbed at his neck. I reached out and grabbed his wrist, astounding at his idiocy. "WHAT? WHAT'S WRONG? AM I DYING?"

"You're not dying, you moron. You're rubbing it in. That's bad."

"I'm really dying, aren't I?"

"Oh, Merlin—come on, follow me. You need to wash off before we start doing anything with that."

We'd just cleared the front door when Sirius began to frantically scratch at his neck. There was a vicious looking yellow climbing from his clavicle to his jawline, bubbly and pus-y and generally very disgusting. I watched him scratch at it with a disgusted scowl on my face.

"I told you not to linger around it." I muttered, looking away. I didn't want to watch that. Yuck. "Didn't I? Didn't I warn you? 'It goes of every few hours, Sirius.' I said. 'It's due to go off soon, best clear the way unless you want to get hit.' That's what I said. Did you listen? Noooo."

"Are you going to nag me the entire time? When you could be getting me some sort of — freaky plant antidote for this?"

"I don't know the antidote for that." I said, scratching my nose.

"As if you don't!" Sirius yelped. I could hear him scratching. It sounded… _unpleasant_. I knew from experience how unpleasant the rash would be for him, honestly, but seeing the rash on another person. Ugh. Would not recommend it. "How can you spend so much time around the dumb thing and not have an antidote around?"

"I don't need it. I told you, I've built up an immunity to it!"

"You've killed me! Show remorse! Oh, god, it's throbbing. Make it stop."

"Are you going to complain the entire time?"

"Someone has to!" He shrieked, then whined high in his throat. "You promise this won't kill me? It isn't going to eat through my skin and attack my throat tube? It's only going to itch, right? Nothing more?"

"Nothing more." I assured him. "Well, there's a 0.001% chance that it'll eat through your skin but that's minuscule odds and only applies to people allergic to coconut oil."

Sirius froze. "Coconut oil? Why coconut oil?"

"The dodecanoic acid, of course." Sirius looked confused. I elaborated. "It is a component of coconut oil."

He swallowed, frozen stiff. I urged him to keep up with my stomping. He did, eventually, though he did it robotically. "Cal. Cal. I'm allergic to coconut oil."

"Oh." I said, sticking out my bottom lip. "Are you?"

" _YES_! You — you know I'm allergic to it — you're the bloody witch who rubbed it into my poor scalp the first time around — "

"The _first_ time around." I reminded him. "The _second_ time was _Cissy_ , and it was completely incidental. How was she supposed to know you were allergic to coconut oil when she coerced you into accepting an extensive scalp treatment from her? You ought to get over it."

"It was your plan—ow, ow, _ow_ —I think I can feel it eating through my skin already—Merlin's saggy Y-fronts, _why_ — it was your plan!"

"My plan? Stop scratching, you big baby, it'll only make it worse. _My plan_? I don't ever involve Cissy in my acts of revenge against you. She never approves."

"Not unless the plan is—is dark and twisted, then she proves to be an invaluable ally!" Sirius threw his arms down at his side and screamed, "Would you take this seriously, Cal?! I'm honestly about to suffocate to death right here because of your ugly little plants!"

"I am taking this seriously." I said, flatly. I gestured to him. "There's actually no possible way for me to take this situation any more seriously."

"Cal!" Sirius whined. I snorted. Sirius only whined _louder_. "I can't believe I was actually going to show you gratitude back there. You know, I was thinking — ow, ow! _It_ _burns_! — I was seriously thinking, 'Wow. I can't believe that under her cold, lifeless exterior, there was a human soul! I should really thank her for that amazing advice!' I can't believe it. I can't believe I actually fooled myself into believe you were a real person, but you're not! You're—you're just as bad as Bella!"

I made an offended noise. "What's wrong with Bella?"

"She's unstable and her hair never moves."

I—well. He had a point about the hair thing.

Sirius was back to scratching at his neck. I looked away. Didn't need to see that, didn't need to see that, did not need to see that. "You're little leaves are evil. They're evil. You keep plants that can kill people out there? Does Aunt Droogie know about that? What about Uncle Cyggie? Do you just keep life-threatening plants in the garden without telling anyone?"

"Yes." I answered flatly, taking a sharp turn left. "Yes, I do. I warned you, didn't I?"

"You said it wouldn't kill me!"

"And it won't."

"But the — the dinosauric acid — "

"Dodecanoic acid, Sirius."

" — the _dinosauric_ _acid_ — "

" _I was_ _kidding_. Merlin, you think I'd be this calm if you were _actually_ dying? We're family, you prat. I wouldn't kill you with one of my plants unless I had an alibi worked out." Sirius was still scratching, but he'd stopped whining. He stared, eyes wide and horrified and very sincerely angry. I stopped at a door and opened it, gesturing for him to follow me in. "Or unless you'd grievously insulted me and the only way to soothe my wounded pride was your head on a stick."

"You know that doesn't make me feel better."

"You have a hideous yellow rash growing on the side of your face. Nothing can make you feel better." I crouched next to a trunk pushed into the side of the room and threw it open. It was much bigger on the inside, folding out into a five-tier storage system for various vials, tubes, beakers and jars. All of them were filled with some sort of plant—some diced, some ground into paste, some sap, and some simply whole. All were labelled. "Well, except maybe this."

"... And what is that?"

"Helpful." I plucked the jar filled with a deep purple paste and unscrewed the lid, scooping a heft amount onto two fingers. I whipped around and gestured. "Come here, you embarrassment. This'll soothe it."

"You said there wasn't an antidote," He muttered, eyeing me and the paste distrustfully. "Or were you lying about that as well?"

"There isn't an antidote. I wasn't joking about that. Come here, dog, I can't reach you all the way back there. There isn't a cure for the mucus. This will just numb the affected area so you don't scratch it. Scratching it only makes the rash worse, and you'll spread the damn thing. It's on your fingers now, see? Bad news. It'll spread if you don't stop scratching." Sirius blew out a breath through his nose. He leaned in. I immediately set to work on the rash, layering the paste on thick. "I somehow don't think Andy would forgive you for that."

"Forgive _you_ , you mean. It's _your_ plant."

"I _warned_ you." I reminded him, scooping up more of the paste. "There. It's helping, isn't it?"

"… I guess." He muttered. "What's in it?"

I paused. "Do you really want to know?"

"… Gross." He stood there in silence and let me do my thing. After my second layer, he started blinking rapidly. "Oh. It's—I can't even feel it anymore."

"Well, that is the point of the paste." I finished the third layer and searched around for a spare rag to wipe my hands on. As expected, there wasn't one in sight. I used Sirius' robes as a dish towel, ignoring his disgruntled noise. He wasn't going to be able to save them since the mucus had hit them anyway. What was a numbing paste to a dead robe? "Make sure you don't wash that paste off in the shower."

"Huh?"

"Keep it away from water. After you're clean, I'll cover it with some nude-wrapping so Reg won't be able to tease you about the Tinky-Winky droppings smeared on your face. I'll put some paste on your hands when you've finished washing so come here when you're finished."

"What's a Tinky-Winky?"

"Purple." I answered. "Now… leave. I don't like you being in my room. It feels wrong."

I shouldn't have said that. Sirius began looking around the room instantly, a cocky grin on his face. "This is your room, is it? I've never been in here before."

"I know. You ignorance was completely intentional."

Sirius was still looking around the room. His eyes paused on a wretched looking pink-and-yellow poster on my wall. He gasped. "Is that—you're a fan of the _City Gnomes_? Are you serious? That awful boyband?" _Right_. That was enough show and tell.

I spun him around and marched him out my door. His shoulders were shaking a bit. He was making soft snorting sounds through his nose. "It's okay," He was insisting, "I think pink would look lovely on you. And the yellow—you could accessorize with it—and your _City Gnomes_ band t-shirt would go really well with the murder in your eyes and everything—"

"How can you even laugh at me," I muttered, "when I know for a fact that you a _Sorcerer's Daughter_ record in your underwear draw?"

"How did you even find out about that? Do you regularly go through my underwear drawer or something? That's nasty."

I rolled my eyes. "I asked Reg for blackmail material. He freely assisted me."

"What, so now Reg goes through my undies on the daily? That's somehow even worse. If it's a girl doing it, it's, like, okay, you know, but when it's your brother—"

"Oh, that's enough." I cut in. I pushed him outside my room and glowered at him. "He was looking for spare socks, since you use all of his and leave gaping holes in the bottom."

Sirius nodded. "You're right, I do do that. He's forgiven then. I'm not forgetting about the _City Gnomes_ thing anytime soon though."

I raise my eyebrow. "I didn't expect you to."

"Right."

"Riiiight."

"Good, then."

"Oh, very good."

We stood there. Sirius fidgeted with his hair. "I should… probably…" He trailed off. I hummed.

"… Shower?" I suggested.

He nodded. "Yes. Shower. I don't want this stinky stuff on me any longer."

"Better get to it then." Sirius did not get to it. " _Yes_ , Sirius? Is there something you wanted?"

Sirius looked annoyed with me on principle. He scowled at my tone and looked prepared to say something biting before his hand started itching. It seemed to remind him where he was. He was back to staring vaguely to the right of me. It took him a bit, but eventually, he managed to work up the guts to say: "Oh, um, I guess I should say… thanks. Not for the 'letting me think I was going to die' thing, that was a dick move and I will be getting you back for that, but for the… paste and the advice and everything."

"It's fine. Don't mention it." I crossed my arms. "Ever."

Sirius nodded, his bottom lip pushed out. "So we're never talking about this again?"

"I won't even mentioned that you cried." I said.

Sirius's face flushed red. "I didn't cry!" He insisted instantly.

"No," I drawled teasingly, "you definitely didn't. Not a single whimper. Your tear ducts weren't wet at all."

"Practically shriveled."

"Completely and utterly dehydrated."

"The Sahara Desert of tear ducts." Sirius finished solemnly. He turned on his heel. "I'll be back in half an hour then!"

"Oh, trust me," I assured him, "the mucus on your hand will be irritating you in about quarter of one. I'd shower quick if I were you."

And what do you know? For the first time that day, Sirius listened to me without complaining.

* * *

…

* * *

We don't end up talking about it ever again.

* * *

…

* * *

On the morning of September 1, Narcissa offered to brush my hair.

Her pale hand gently cradled my thick hair as she carded one of her fancy bone combs through it. I knew that when she was done with it, my hair would be introduced to a completely new tier of softness. Until then, she would hit a snag and grunt in annoyance, muttering under her breath about inconvenient hair follicle genes, but otherwise the matter of my knotted hair would pass by quietly.

Sitting in my chair, having my hair brushed by my older sister, I was very peaceful. If you had told me years ago that Narcissa would be brushing and doing my hair for Hogwarts, I would have snorted at you and dismissed you. After all, Narcissa enjoyed throwing dirt far too much to grow into the type of girl who would take pride in appearances.

Ah, I should have known better. Narcissa was always very good at learning her lesson; and the lesson of an ideal pure-blood wife was one she was at the receiving end multiple times, at our father's own request. Be pretty. Say nothing. Keep yourself to yourself.

Narcissa brushed a section of my hair to the side and began to comb through the thicker parts. She hit a long of tangles there. I grunted, hissed, snarled, but no sound was convincing her to perhaps take it easy on my scalp. I had the feeling she just sent the back of my head unflattering faces and carried on as she was.

When she was finished combing my hair, she made a satisfied noise and carded her fingers through the now silky mane. "Touch it, sister. I dare think you've never had hair as soft as this before." I touched my head and made an involuntary noise of wonder. The smugness was palpable. "You already have your things packed, yes?"

"Kritter did it last night." I said, which wasn't technically false. Kritter had packed my things. I just didn't mention how I helped with the task, learning many helpful cleaning spells while I was at it. "Why?"

"I want to braid your hair. It may take a while."

While usually I didn't like wasting time with my hair, I found that I didn't want to move from my seat at all. In fact, I might have even been smiling. Luckily, Narcissa was on the wrong side to see it. "Okay then. If you want to."

Narcissa made another pleased sound and brushed my hair quickly again. "It may hurt a little. Make sure you don't move too much." I nodded, unthinking, and Narcissa huffed and yanked on my hair. I yelped. "What did I just say? Don't. move."

Sighing heavily, I did my best not to make a sarky comment. Narcissa had been very kind to me today. I hadn't wanted to ruin it with my big fat mouth. I was sure Narcissa had noticed my conscious effort at being quiet, and was very much amused by it. Fortunately for me, she didn't exploit my new patience as Andromeda would have. She just smiled at the back of my head and twisted my hair up.

In that moment, I was sure Narcissa was my favourite.

I sat there silently as Narcissa parted my hair at multiple areas of my head and began to work her magic, flinching slightly but not overly much. I was very conscious of my own body in the beginning, careful to keep as still as I humanly could manage, before it ended up hurting and I forced myself to relax. Yeah, bad move. When I started relaxing, my mind started wandering, and as Pandora could attest, I wasn't the most observant in that state of mind.

A hand yanked my hair back. "Stop falling asleep!" Narcissa hissed. I blinked, the back of my scalp burning, and whined.

"Cissyyy," I huffed. "That hurt!"

"I told you not to move. What did you do? You moved! Now I have to do this part all over again, it's completely crooked, you can't wear that in public."

"Who's gonna notice something like that? You're just anal about detail."

"Any Slytherin worth their salt will notice a crooked plait," Narcissa said flatly. I was somewhat startled at the assumption that I would be in Slytherin, even though I knew that was the general consensus around the house. I don't know how I kept forgetting. Green didn't look good on me. I didn't want it at all. "It will reflect badly on the family if your hair isn't perfect."

I tried to give her a sidelong glance, largely impossible due to her position behind me. Still. Points for effort. "Reflect badly on the family or you?"

"You focus on not moving, little troll." Narcissa clicked her tongue, snapping my head into the proper position. I, for one, hadn't noticed I'd gone off centre in the first place. "Clearly, it will require all of your concentration."

"I'm not all that good with concentrating."

"You're excellent at concentrating, should the task appeal to you. I have watched you sit in an armchair from dusk to dawn reading a book about soil types (of all things!) as thick as my arm. Where do you even find these books? I know they weren't a part of the library before… you."

"I smuggle them into the house using my underground — and I mean literally, underground — network of earthworms." I revealed, a sarcastic tinge to my tone. "They merge together to form one giant earthworm, throw on a hooded cloak, and buy my books for me. I repay them by feeding them rotting carrots and potato skins. It is a reliable working relationship."

"Are you serious." Narcissa sounded completely unimpressed.

"Oh, dead serious. Earthworms are proud creatures, too, so I'd consider what you're about to say about them. If they find out you've been talking behind their backs, they might merge to form the big earthworm and wait at the end of your bed. You'll wake up in the middle of the night and there they'll be—"

Narcissa made a soft choking sound. "Merlin's beard, Dora."

"—waiting in the dark, dressed only in a hooded cloak—"

"That's enough, dear gods, Dora, you can stop now. I understand. I won't ask—Dora—Dora, please—"

"—peering at you with their beady earthworm eyes—"

"Honestly!" Narcissa suddenly bit out, ripping her hands away from my head. She planed her hands on my shoulders and leaned over my head. Her upside down face was glowering at me. I hastily covered up my smile, knowing she'd seen it anyway. "Earthworms don't have eyes! They live underground, they're blind!" She insisted.

I paused. "I know how I know that, but how do you? You hate Herbology." Narcissa blinked. Her head disappeared from my line of sight and resettled behind me. She huffed again and thrust her fingers back into my hair, refusing to answer. "Uh, hello? I asked a question? …Cissy? Is it embarrassing? Is that why you won't say?"

Narcissa yanked on a piece of my hair. "Stop moving." She hissed, and then refused to say another thing more. Not that that stopped me from pestering her, of course. By the time she was finished with my hair, she was shoving me out of the room much to my general amusement.

"Gods," She snarled shortly before slamming the door. "What is wrong with you?"

"I've died once." I told her, innocent as can be.

SLAM!

I smiled. Fun times. I could understand why Sirius was such a little shit all of the time if that was what it felt like.

* * *

…

* * *

Narcissa proudly wore her Prefect badge when we boarded the train. I asked her, "Where is Sirius?"

"Traveling with Uncle Alphard." Narcissa answered. I resigned myself to not seeing Sirius before the train left. Uncle Alphard had a skewed sense of time; Sirius would be lucky to arrive within five minutes of the train leaving.

"Why isn't Lady Black escorting him?" I pressed. "Sirius is going to be quite upset by this…"

"Does it matter?" Narcissa raised her eyebrow. I knew what she was thinking. Why be upset about his lack of parents when ours aren't here for us either? "You'll sit next to each other after your Sorting is finished. He'll be right after you. Besides, you don't even like him. Where is this concern coming from?"

I huffed. "I just wanted to make sure he was alright," I answered, a bit petulant. Narcissa smirked at me. I turned away from her. "Shouldn't you be leaving me for the fancy Prefect meeting at the front of the train or something? Or do you intend to escort me straight to my car?"

"How did you know about the Prefects meeting?"

"I—I didn't. You confirmed it now."

"Stellar estimating skills. In any case, you're right. I will be attending the meeting… after escorting you, of course. You're a first year so you have no idea where you're supposed to sit. We're quite early, so you'll be the first person there, but the pure-blood families typically sit—here." She stopped in front of an innocuous car that looked none different from any others we passed.

I sent her a narrow look. "Are you pulling my leg?"

Narcissa huffed a laugh and opened the door. "I'm not. Do you see that carving right there, in the corner?" I squinted at where she was pointed and blinked. I could see a carving. It looks like a coat of arms. "That's an old shield of the Selwyn family, from the… 1800s, I believe? And there, on the other side" — she pointed to another area of the car — "that's the Shafiq family shield from the 1820s. Right beside it is the Yaxley shields — that one is from the 1800s and that one is their most recent one — and there is the Black shield and family motto. _Tourjous pur_."

I found the entire thing… rather endearing, to be honest. This was like the popular table, except only freshman were allowed to sit there, and it was on a train instead of inside a school. It was almost cute. Like delinquent children scratching their initials into desks with their blunt scissors. _Here I am_ , the shields were saying, _Here I will stay, forevermore._

"The first to carve their shield must have been quite bored." I caught myself saying out loud. "And quite lonely."

Narcissa sent me a look. "Is that what you think? Bella thought it was permanent proof of a family's purity. Only pure-bloods could sit in here to renew the carving. That the freshest carvings belonged to the purest families and the ones nearly faded was because the magic keeping it there was fading due to fornicating with mudbloods."

"It might mean that now, but why else would an eleven year old scratch their name into wood if not out of loneliness and boredom? It's the same reason toddlers draw on the walls." I looked at the car like I was seeing it properly for the first time. There were shields all over the car, hiding in the shadows of panels or blatantly at eye level, begging for attention. Some were small modest things. Some were large, abrasive, elaborate. I looked and realised just how many there were. How the smallest one of them all was the very first. "Why did you think they did it?"

Narcissa was looking at me strangely. "I didn't really have a theory, but I figured Bella's was the closest." The corner of her lip quirked up. "I might have to reconsider."

I wrinkled my nose. "I could be wrong."

"I doubt that you are." Said Narcissa. She pulled out her wand and gestured towards the large Black shield and motto. She did a simple move with her wrist. "Did you see that? Copy me." I yanked my wand out of my pocket and mimicked her wrist movements until she finally approved. "Good. Now, it's a simple spell, but delicate as well. You're only retracing the carvings, you don't want to…"

"Colour outside the lines? I won't."

"No, you won't. The spell is _sculpere_. Try it with the wrist movement, but don't put any magic into it. I want to make sure you do this right."

"Did Andy do this with you?" I sighed, but I was resigned to my fate. Narcissa liked to have things perfect. God forbid I mess this spell up. I flicked my wrist and said, " _Sculpere_. Good? Can I do the spell now?"

Narcissa hummed. "Do it again."

I rolled my eyes. " _Sculpere_."

"… Okay. It'll do."

"Thank you ever so much for your permission." I said flatly. I pointed my wand at the damned crest and dutifully said, " _Sculpere_ ," tempted to mess up the spell on purpose to get a reaction out of Narcissa. I didn't, however, and my magic hit true, re-carving our family's proof of purity into the wood of the car. I pocketed my wand and turned to my sister. "Can you leave now? You'll be late for your Prefects meeting if you don't hurry."

"There used to be a time when you idolised me." Said Narcissa.

"I honestly cannot recall a single instance of my life when I idolised you, Cissy."

"You were too young to remember it then." She sniffed.

"Oh, I doubt that. I remember everything. From birth onwards. Maybe even from before I was born."

"Is this going to be like the earthworms?" Narcissa quirked an eyebrow at me. She opened the door. "I'll be going then. Take care. Make allies."

"What happened to making friends?" I asked.

"Slytherins don't have friends." Narcissa rolled her eyes at me. "I'll see you after your Sorting, Dora." She said. She left the car in a flourish of robes. I watched her walk down the hall, waiting until her back was out of sight, and then sighed. I exited the car and made my way down the hall in the opposite direction to Narcissa. In the time it took for Narcissa to explain to Special Car™, the train had filled up quite nicely. It made it difficult for me to find a suitable carriage. Eventually, I had to resign myself to sharing.

I couldn't find Pandora anywhere, either. I opened a door and stuck my head in. There was a chubby boy with an oval face and very narrow eyes sitting there, swathed in his robes. I asked, "Could I sit here?"

The boy looked up at me and squeaked. He sounded like a mouse. "S-Sit here? With me? … But you're a…" His voice was as high pitched as I imagined it would be.

I squinted. "A what, exactly?" A Black? A pure-blood? An evil witch?

"A…"

"Yes?"

"A…" The boy swallowed nervously, fiddling with his robes. His face was on fire.

I was quickly becoming irritated. "Spit it out already."

The boy spluttered: "A… girl!"

I stared at him, dumbfounded. The boy stared back, eyes bugging out of his head and face a humiliating red. For a moment, none of us spoke. Then I made a derisive sound and ducked back out of the car, shutting the door shut behind me. I stomped off without another word, stopping at the next nearly-empty car that I saw.

I opened the door. "Could I sit here." I demanded more than asked.

The blonde boy looked up at me, brushing his long, straggly hair out of his face. He had a round face, a long nose, and very thin lips. His robes were second-hand, so he definitely wasn't a pure-blood, unless he was a Weasley (which I doubted, since he was far too fair for that). He held his wand between his pointer finger and middle finger, using it to help him remember which line of the book he was on. I considered telling him that that wasn't how you were supposed to use your wand, and that he could accidentally blast a hole through the pages if he wasn't careful, but I didn't know how to say it without sounding like an asshole.

The boy frowned softly at me but nodded anyway. "Sure." He muttered, shifting into the corner even more so. "Could you keep it down though?"

I frowned at him and brought my trunk in behind me, putting it in the overhanging compartment. I sat in the opposite corner to him and pulled out my own book, A Detailed List of Non-Standardized Spells: First Year, opening it to the bookmark. I would probably never be able to use most of the spells listed, but that didn't mean I couldn't learn about them regardless. A good defence was one that dipped into all areas of offense and learned the counterattacks accordingly.

I considered introducing myself to my companion. I dismissed the thought. He already looked quite taken with his book and I didn't want to disturb him. On the cover of the book was a Lethifold, which I honestly could have done without seeing today. The book was either about all dangerous creatures, the XXXXX classified beasts, or the tropical ministry. I couldn't know. I didn't see the name of the book.

Realizing that perhaps I was being rude, I stopped peering awkwardly at the eleven year old and returned my attention to my book.

Maybe if I finished the book quick enough, I could move onto one of my Herbology guides.

* * *

…

* * *

I met Sirius on my way into the castle. Or, to be accurate, saw Sirius on the way into the castle. He was standing with two boys; a messy-haired one and a tall, tawny-haired one. I had an inkling as to who they were. I decided not to think too hard on it. I thought about approaching him but he looked quite happy where he was without me, so I searched for Pandora's blonde head instead. I was disappointed when I couldn't find it. I didn't anticipate sharing a boat with three strangers.

Hagrid was shouting for our attention and guiding us towards the boats, his equally as large lantern lighting the way for us. I followed that more than I followed him. It was harder to lose track of a glowing bright ball during night time than a half-giant of a man dressed entirely in dark brown. It was as soon as the boats came into view did a hand grip my elbow. I took in the grip subconsciously, jerking my head to the side.

There was a waft of white roses. I said to the person, "You were at your cousin's house?"

Pandora came up beside me. "I was looking for you." She said, sounding breathless. I wondered if she had pushed through the swarm of eleven year old's to get to my side. "You weren't in the car."

"The—oh, that car. No, I wasn't. Wasn't my scene."

"I saw that you spelled the shield though, so you must have been there before everyone else. Right?" I nodded. Pandora was scowling. "I thought so. Well, in any case, you didn't miss out on much. Everyone was too busy grandstanding to be much fun. You know how much I dislike that stuff."

"I got the idea the thirty-sixth time you ranted to me about it."

Pandora flushed. "I – I just really don't like it."

"Mmmhm."

"Are you judging me? Stop it." She let go of my arm to gently shove me with her shoulder. "It's dumb. Why are you laughing when you agree with me? It's rude."

"I'm—I'm sorry, it's just funny to see you…" I covered my mouth with my hand. "You don't get angry often, you know? It's funny to see you frown."

"I don't think it's funny. I think it's terrible." Pandora snapped, then took in a careful breath through her nose. "I really wish you'd have stayed there. I might have come out of it in a good mood if I had you."

I felt a twinge guilty. "Sorry, Pan. I didn't think… do you want me to go around hexing them for you? Just point them out and I'll do it."

Pandora considered it. After a too-long pause, she shook her head. "You'll somehow end up hexing yourself. I can't risk that. Besides, you're going into Slytherin with the lot of them. No use making enemies."

"I could still make it work." I assured her. "I'd end up incorporating the end result of the duel into my grand schemes. The hexes could be the first step. You'll never know unless I try it."

"Oh, enough of you." Pandora shook her head. "You're so mean, you know? How did I not see that coming when I decided to become your friend."

"It's true, my malicious nature is pretty obvious when you first see me."

"I must have bad decision making skills."

"Or no self-preservation instincts."

"No more 'an four firs' years to a boat!"

Pandora turned a grin to me. "Share a boat with me?" She asked, "It's the least you can do after abandoning me on the train."

I nudged her gently and said. "And your mother was concerned that you weren't manipulative enough."

* * *

…

* * *

Before, I lived in a house with my mom, mamá, two older brothers, one older sister, her boyfriend, one little brother, one little sister, and a little one on the way.

East down the road from our house lived my auntie, uncle-in-law, three blood-related cousins and four cousins-in-law. West up the road from our house was my uncle, his girlfriend, and their kid.

A few streets away from our three houses was my abuelita, my abuelo, my other auntie, a twice-removed cousin, and an honorary-cousin.

In the next suburb over, my auntie, uncle, uncle's boyfriend, and all nine of their kids lived together in a modestly sized home.

Every weekend we would gather at someone's house (there was a roster for it and everything) for a bonfire. The family would conjugate in the kitchens, occupying every inch of space in there, elbows digging into stomachs tripping into the one person always inconveniently carrying a scalding hot dish around. It was a joyous affair: sometimes, I could still hear the buzz of the room, the sizzle of meat, the hiss of sauce poured into a hot pan.

When the food was cooked, we would swarm around the fire with our dishes and containers and plastic utensils, eating cuchifritos and pinchitos and hornazos until our bellies swelled. One of the cousins in college would pull out an industrial size bag of marshmallows and the entire damn family would cheer and shout _'oi, yo también!'_ I remembered how half the family would roast their marshmallows on a stick and the other half would be having a competition of who could catch the most marshmallows in their mouths. There was an unexpected calming factor that came with the juxtapose of victorious cheering versus quiet talking. Maybe it was the fact that both sides of the fire were guaranteed to explode into cackles at one point.

There was never a quiet moment. I did not find myself in the silence. As introverted as I was, being with my family had never drained me of energy. I would tire quickly, yes, but I would not retreat from them and their noise. I would sit with my mom and allow the noise to swallow me whole. I would become the noise. The constant buzz of sound, the overlapping conversations, the lingering smell of a rich feast being prepared in the kitchens, the eyes that prodded and the eyes that didn't; the warmth of mom's hugs, the softness of mamá singing _Que Sera Sera_ as she prepared pancakes for breakfast; Leo's arms, lifting me off the ground. I was never without physical comfort. The hum, the smells, the suffocating atmosphere of too much emotion for such a little space—I did not fear it.

Instead, I would close my eyes, smile, and call _, ¡Mamá, Mom, estoy en casa!_

(I would be home.)

Walking into Hogwarts Great Hall reminded me so much of that that I was halted in my steps. The sounds and smells and noise overwhelmed me. Not in a bad way, exactly, but there was a stab of pain through my chest that strangled my throat. I suddenly couldn't breathe around how much I missed my parents. How much I missed my brothers and sisters.

Pandora leaned in and whispered, "Cal, are you okay?"

I thought, _Be patient. My heart is heavy._

 _Dios mío_ , but in that moment, there were none in the entire universe who had experience homesickness as intense as this.

I couldn't breathe.

I ducked my head and asked Pandora, "Stay close to me." I needed her to. I would break without her by my side, I knew. A reminder of which world I was in, of which life I was in.

Dora. Dora. Cal. Callidora Lysandra Black III.

You have no brothers, you are losing your sisters, you have never been to a bonfire in your life. Pandora Travers is the closest thing you have to a best friend. Sirius Black dies in 1996 at thirty-six years old, killed by a spell from your sister's wand. You were born on December 17, 1959. You don't know what an iPhone is. Apple is a fruit. If you are emotional enough, you could burst the pipes running through the walls of this castle using a magic that comes from inside of you.

Your sisters are fair-skinned and so are you.

You have a father.

You don't love your mother.

 _(You love your mamá's more than anyone else in the solar system.)_

Pandora was whispering in my ear. Callidora, you're shaking. Callidora, are you okay? Callidora, tell me what is going on.

I couldn't. I could write a novel of the things I couldn't say; a book about silence.

I wrapped my hands around the tangle of yarn that represented my sanity and held it together with trembling fingers. How fragile I was, between the few good moments my life had been.

 _[_ _I lay and I cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive._ _]_

I wanted to lay my head in mamá's lap for eternity; her hand in my hair, soothing, as we both sung to each other, to the moon, to the stars.

I wanted—

 _I wanted_ —

"Black, Callidora."

I wanted to _go home_.

The lip of the hat came over my eyes. I begged it, my family's faces fresh in my mind, _Not the racists. Not another life of them._

It laughed at me. It laughed and laughed and laughed and told me, _I know what I am doing, Camila Jimenez._

Why did he sound like _mi tío_ all of a sudden—

"RAVENCLAW!"

I was a marionette walked towards the table by the strings of a puppeteer I could not hope to know. I sat at the end of the table and held my fragile head in my fragile hands. There were whispering and mutterings around me. A Black, not sorted into Slytherin? Ah, but as least it is Ravenclaw. If it had been Hufflepuff, she would have been disowned right there on the stool. Still, it's unusual, innit? I thought they were all snakes—

There was always something wrong with her—

 _("Eres muy importante para mí, mi vida.")_

— Breathe in.

…

Breathe out.

…

Breathe in.

…

Breathe out.

…

Brea—

"GRYFFINDOR!"

—the in.

…

(Clap. Clap. Clap. The loudest, be the loudest. Meet his eyes, nod in approval, clap despite the grey eyes of your fair-skinned sister watching you.)

Breathe out.

…

Breathe in.

…

Breathe out.

…

 _(The anger was better. There was a sense of being in anger. A reality and presence. An awareness of worth. It was a lovely surging.)_

I didn't think of my Before. I didn't think of my Before parents or my Before siblings or my Before cousins. I couldn't. The ones I had now needed every inkling of my attention.

The hat shouted the name of my house. The first year on the stool swaggered towards their—my— _our_ —table and took a seat next to me. There had been more firsties sorted here while I had been clutching to the loose threads of clarity. None of them had sat next to me.

The new boy did.

I realized, a bit too slowly, that it was because I knew him. He was the boy from the train. He sat beside me as if nothing was amiss. He pulled out his book from his billowing robes and began to read under the table. He must have felt my eyes on him. He glanced up at me and raised his nearly invisible eyebrows. "Are you alright there?"

"Not entirely." I answered, compelled to answer honestly. He seemed like a frank guy to me. I can't put into words the aura he was giving off; only that it was not one that welcomed roundabout answers or little white lies. "Could be doing better."

"You looked like you were going to be sick when Professor McGonagall called you." He confessed. "Were you that worried that you wouldn't be sorted here?"

"… You could put it like that." I answered. It was not an un-truth. "I didn't want to go into Slytherin."

"It's just a house." Said the boy. "It doesn't make the people. The people make the house."

With experience gained from navigating conversations with Pandora, I quickly parsed through his words. The people made the house? Did he mean that without the people, a house would be nothing? Because he was right. What was a house without people to stereotype? It was just blue and bronze on silk. It was like—like saying that the people were the soul of a city.

"The house doesn't define you, you define your house? Like that?"

The boy smiled, gaunt little face rounding at the cheeks. "Yes, exactly that." He tilted his head at me and put his finger in between the pages of his book to act as a bookmark when he closed it. He twisted around and extended his hand to me. "You're Callidora?"

"Yes, I am."

"Are you a celebrity or something? A lot of people reacted to your name."

"It's more something to do with my last name." I told him. "You're a… muggle-born?"

"Or a half-blood. Could be either. I never knew my parents." Said the boy. "I received my letter at the orphanage."

I didn't know how to reply to that. I cleared my throat and muttered, "Oh, uh, sorry."

"It's okay. You kind of get used to the feeling.

"Well… I guess my family is… well-known. There's an… obsession with blood in the wizarding world. Specifically, the purity of blood. The Black's consider themselves practically royalty in terms of the concentration of magic in our family tree. It's an established family. Goes back to the middle-ages, I think, or somewhere thereabouts."

"So you are a celebrity."

"Not me, specifically. The name is just well-known. None of them actually know me."

"Is it a bad family? The one you come from." I did not think about mom. He shrugged at my look. "I am 'exceptionally perceptive for my age'." He told me, sounding as if he were quoting someone from memory. "Does your family have a bad name or something?"

"They're not undeserving of it." I told him bluntly. "And yes, we do."

"Why?"

"Because we're bad people, I suppose."

"Why are they bad?"

"Because of… stuff." I blinked rapidly. "Things."

"What sort of stuff?"

"Things."

"What sort of things?"

"Stuff — _look_ , it doesn't matter _why_. All that's important is the fact that, for once, public consensus is actually right with this one. My family isn't... we're a fixer-upper, is the least of it."

"Hmm," He hummed. "I don't know if I can take your word for it."

I huffed. "Fine then. Whatever. Form your own opinion, it won't matter. You'll see for yourself eventually." Although I hoped he wouldn't experience it first-hand. He wasn't a pure-blood. Decorum and manners went out the door quickly after such a discovery. "You know my name. It's unfair that I don't know yours."

"You never asked."

"I thought you'd introduce yourself without prompting. My mistake."

"Yup, sure is." He smiled politely at me. "My name is Xeno. Short of Xenophilius, which I would prefer _not_ to be called, thank you very much." He paused, then seemed to remember himself and added: "Er, Lovegood, that is. Xenophilius Lovegood."

I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. What? "Well then," I said, back straightening subconsciously. "I think I have a friend that might like to meet you."

"You do?" Xenophilius searched the hall immediately. "Are they in another house?"

"No. They're — actually about to be sorted right now." I looked into the crowd and met saw Pandora's small form in the front of the line. Unlike the other firsties, she was not fit to dance in joy or pee herself in anxiety. She was cool, calm, collected. An entire universe away from everyone else in the room. She was —

— sending constant glances in my direction.

I met her eyes and smiled apologetically. Her eyes widened. Like quicksilver, there was a grin on her face. It disappeared after a pause, her eyebrows twisting downwards in concern. I shook my head. Then nodded it. Then shook it again. Eventually, I settled for an ambiguous shrug. It did nothing to stop her being concerned, but I hoped she'd appreciate the honesty.

"Is that her? The one with the pale hair?"

"Yes, that's her. She's—"

Professor McGonagall called: "Travers, Pandora."

"—well, you heard." I finished. I was still fucking shook but the talking had distracted me. As long as I didn't look in the direction of the Slytherin table, I was hopeful that I could survive this first night without another breakdown.

The hat barely touched her head before it was shouting "RAVENCLAW!" The people occupying the table I was seated at starting clapping and hollering for Pandora. I joined in, clapping almost as loud as I did for Sirius. Pandora looked pleased as she approached the table. I wasn't surprised at all. Pandora has an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a pure joy for learning. She bled blue and bronze.

Xenophilius had tilted his head. "Your friend is quite pretty." He said.

I almost snorted. Instead, I clenched my fist in my lap, took a deep breath in, and plastered a slightly stiff smile on my face. I prepared to the questions and concern. Absently, I heard myself say to Xenophilius: "Yeah, she sure is."

I told myself, The worst of it is over.

* * *

…

* * *

I would tell myself that many times that night. I would not believe myself — I know too much of the heart of this world to ever convince myself of such a basic comfort — but I am very, very good at deluding myself.

The worst is over.

(You don't know the half of it.)

* * *

…

* * *

BONUS #01

— 1969, Summer Hols, Grimmauld Place

…

"You know, it's incredibly odd." Regulus said over tea one day. It was a rare day indeed where most of us gathered for tea and biscuits and weren't harbouring some sort of grudge against each other. Regulus, for one, looked quite at peace with himself without his brother and cousin at each other's throat. "Sirius and I know so little about our parents. Such as Mother. What was her maiden name?"

Andromeda dunked a biscuit in her tea and said matter-of-factly. "Black."

Sirius said, "I think he meant her maiden name."

Narcissa sighed. "Black." She repeated, quite condescendingly. She twinkled her fingers at me and said, "One of those, please." I handed her one of the gingersnaps with a saccharine smile on my face. "Ta, love."

"Wait…" Sirius whispered, the confusion clearing from his face. "You're not saying…"

Andromeda swallowed her biscuit and reached for another one. Casual as could be, she explained: "Uncle Orion and Aunt Walburga are second cousins."

Sirius just about retched at the table. "Ew!"

I pushed a plate of biscuits close to Andromeda, who gave me a grateful smile. Regulus' face was rapidly paling. He placed down his cup and braced his hands against the table. "What?" He croaked.

"Oh, don't act so scandalised." Narcissa scolded them, sipping delicately from her teacup. It was a new one, a gift from her betrothed. She was quite taken with the flowery patterns on the porcelain. I think she described it as 'quaint'. That was '99c-quality merchandise' in anyone else's language. "It is not at all uncommon for prominent families to keep the bloodlines close."

Regulus' face paled even further. He covered his mouth and whispered, "'Keep the bloodlines close'…"

Sirius looked appalled. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Well," I spoke up, refilling my teacup. "What would you call it?"

Sirius snorted. "Oh, I don't know. How about, 'Good morning, Appalachia, I got a mighty cute sister and an extra set of toes.'"

Andromeda sighed. "No one has any extra toes."

"I have a double-jointed thumb."

"Remarkable." Narcissa said dryly. "Use it to help me settle your brother, please. He looks like he might be sick."

That was an understatement. I could have plugged the boy full of arsenic and he'd look a sight better then than he did at that moment. I refilled his cup to the top and pushed it closer to him. He pushed it away, shaking his head. I raised my eyebrows and pointedly pushed it back. He ducked his head and brought the cup to his lips.

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand how everyone was so okay with this." Sirius was saying as I forced Regulus to finish his jasmine green. "I mean, what? Did they just go, 'What a cute couple. They look so much alike.'"

I tried to cover my mouth to muffle my snort, but it didn't work out that well. I said, "Ha! Cissy, just like you and Lucy." Narcissa sent me a sour look. Sirius' eyes widened. He whispered, 'No.' very softly to himself, as if that would make this situation any less real.

Regulus, looking a shade better after having sculled his scalding tea, refilled his cup and repeated the process. Andromeda winced. "So…" He eventually went on to say. "Mother and Father have the same great-grandfather."

Narcissa sighed patronizingly and handed him a biscuit. Andromeda did the same for Sirius, who just shoved it in his mouth like the great big slob we all knew him to be. I made a face at him. He made an over exaggerated version of that same face back at me.

"Try not to think about it. Eat your biscuit, Reg."

Regulus ate his biscuit.

* * *

...

* * *

 **6.10.16 | EDIT:** Fixed a few typos. Eliminated repeating sentences. Completed a few sections that abruptly cut off.

 **1.04.17 | EDIT:** General fix-up.

…


	4. sitting in your golden cage

**Title:** fish hooks in the corners of their mouths

 **Summary:** "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]

 **Rating:** Tentative T

 **Disclaimer:** Disclaimer

 **Dedication:** To **blackhawk68** who is a new homie and it's always nice to meet new people! Plus, they're just super nice. Also to **bluejanes** whom I love, infinitely and forever. And **billy**. Always. Not even kidding. Bye.

 **Warning:** Aspect of horror that isn't terribly descriptive. Mild description of drowning.

.

* * *

05.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _sitting in your golden cage_

* * *

.

If there was to be one redeeming factor of my situation, I would say it was the common room.

The Ravenclaw common room was a masterpiece of medieval artistry; a cathedral of bookcases and polished silver stones. It was a thing to behold, sophisticated in a way no other part of the castle had managed to mimic. It was filled with dark wooden tables and chairs of plush navy blue velvet. There was a fireplace burning low when I tumbled downstairs, carefully adjusted by one of the older students to keep the temperature comfortable in the biting weather.

As I was wiping the sleep out of my eyes, I re-acquainted myself with my new home and how it looked in the dark. Less mythical, I thought, and no less glamorous for it. It was a quiet place; a place for thinking. Spacious, warm, filled with the sound of aged paper turning and quills softly scratching on parchment.

Nothing like the Great Hall. Nothing like Grimmauld Place. Nothing like the house I grew up in.

I was thankful for that.

The best part of the common room was not it's sophistication or the towering bookcase attached to one of the walls, but instead, the presence of life. The tower was a clean place on its own, empty, but with its students came _soul._ There were instruments propped up in corners or occupying their own space on a sofa. There were dozens of unfinished chess games, muggle and wizarding, and discarded Snap decks lying untouched. Open textbooks, locked leather-bound journals, notes scattered across a low table next to a lukewarm cuppa—the students of Ravenclaw were the heart of it.

We were the warmth.

That was undeniably my favourite part of the tower.

Another thing was the astounding amount of _candles._ Candles of all shapes, sizes and conceivable colours were everywhere in the room, offering a flickering, warm light to the spacious area when the fireplace was out or if night had fallen. There were half-melted candles buried in their own wax sitting on the sill of the tall windows, there were candelabras in the centre of low dark-wooded tables surrounding by open textbooks, there were candles sticking out of the walls, wonky-like, and dripping their wax into bottomless bronze holders; there was not a corner of the tower not lit up by the candles.

Another thing in abundance were the _cats._ The Ravenclaw common room was full of cats of even more variety than the coloured candles, which was saying something, since I had seen quite a few candles charmed to go through quite the bit of colours. There were a few pale-faced Ravenclaws curled up on the navy blue sofas with a cat or five occupying a squishy spot of their body. Perched on top of on sixth year's Potions textbook was a Norwegian Forest Cat that purred and chirped whenever the first year tried to shove it away. I could not see a single square of space in the common room that didn't have a cat running underfoot.

Most of the cats didn't even have _collars_.

I was suddenly very, very concerned. I looked down to make sure I was not about to step on the tail of a sleeping feline. I was startled to find that I was, in fact, very close to doing that exact thing. Right in front of the stairs was a pitch black cat fast asleep, the end of its tail twitching and flicking. It was quite the handsome looking thing.

I couldn't resist myself.

I bent over and scratched it behind its ears. It was soft. I crouched and began to scratch its head. When it didn't wake, I smiled and began to stroke down its back. I had not encountered many cats before that, and I was enamoured. Majestic creatures, cats were. Beautiful and loyal and, frankly, much better than dogs, although I loved dogs very much as well.

It was the absent-minded cough of a studying student that reminded me where I was.

I shot to my feet, wiping my hand on my robes, and resumed rubbing my eyes. Class, I told myself. You have class, you great big fool. It's your first day of school and you've gone and slept in. Remember that, dofus?

An older student glanced up distractedly from their textbook, doing a double take when they saw me standing dumbly at the bottom of the stairs. The purple rhinestones in his glasses gleamed in the sunlight coming in from the windows. He looked intimidating, for some reason. Setting aside his quill, he straightened up and tipped the (now awake) Siamese cat from his head.

"You're a first year, aren't you?" He called, then continued without waiting for an answer. "You'll have to fix your sleeping schedule if this is the time of the morning you usually get up."

"Is it very late?" I asked.

The boy raised his eyebrows at me, looking vaguely bemused. "I reckon you'll only arrive to your first lesson ten minutes late if you skip breakfast." I… really didn't fancy the sound of that. It must have shown on my face, because the boy's amusement seemed a bit more focused on me this time, instead of at his general surroundings. "Most of the Professors are lenient on the first day so I wouldn't be fretting too much. Unless you have McGonagall first thing in the morning, then all bets are off. You don't happen to have Transfiguration right now, do you?"

As a matter of fact, I did.

"… Will she be harsh, do you think?"

The boy winced. "Right bad stroke of luck there. Sorry, lass, we can't win all of them. If you are properly repentant, she won't give you detention, at least." That was a relief. The boy nodded at the doorway and sent me an encouraging look. "Have a nice day, firstie. You're gonna love it."

I cleared my throat and nodded, straining to smile at his manners. I wasn't sure how well it communicated. "… Thanks." I mumbled, picking up my robes and rushing for the door. I didn't want to trip over the hem and fall on my face in front of him. I would literally rather die than do that. I only realized that I didn't catch his name when I was nearly tripping down the staircase to get to my first class.

Aw, shit. Now he was going to think I was pretentious.

So far, I was doing a brilliant job at making myself likable and approachable to my housemates.

I sent mental glares at my mental construction of Pandora. Somehow, this was all her fault.

.

* * *

.

"Well, well, well," Said Professor McGonagall when I _finally_ arrived. "Another student late, and a Ravenclaw too. I expected more from you, Miss… Black, was it?"

I could only think, _Thank god we share this class with Hufflepuffs,_ because I could not imagine a Gryffindor or Slytherin patron sending me sympathetic looks while I was being humiliated in front of everyone. There were, of course, some children sniggering or smirking, as there always were, but McGonagall sent them looks that silenced them quickly enough.

"Consider this your first strike, Miss Black, and for the rest of you, consider this your final warning. Among many other disrespectful behaviours, I will _not_ be tolerating tardiness in my classroom, nor will I accept any excuses. If you are struggling to navigate the classroom, simply ask your Prefects or Head of House for a map of the castle and they will happily provide you one. There is absolutely no excuse for being late. Is that clear?" She addressed this to the entire classroom, which was a small relief, since I didn't want that speech concentrated on me.

Everyone hastened to nod, some chirping a discordant, "Yes, Professor McGonagall!" Professor McGonagall pursed her lips and nodded, looking… well, I suppose she looked 'pleased'. Or as close as she could get to it when she was still making a stern face. I didn't realize someone with so many wrinkles could look so terrifying before. I had been wrong.

Professor McGonagall turned her sharp eyes to me and raised one of her thin eyebrows. "And you, Miss Black," She began primly. I swallowed. "I hope you comprehend that any more examples of truancy from you _will_ be treated severely and rewarded with a punishment that such acts of disrespect are due. Am I understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Take a seat, Miss Black."

I took the closest seat available to me. Pandora was not sharing this class with me; there were a lot of first years, you see, and no small amount of them were sent off to Ravenclaw. Not all of us could share the same schedule. Pandora's first class was — Potions, perhaps? I could not remember. The point was that I knew no one in my class, and this stripped away a rather essential comfort to me.

I had to sit next to a _stranger_.

This was _not_ appealing to me. The last thing I wanted was to draw McGonagall's attention to me, however, so I sat next to the Hufflepuff that had been sending me sympathetic glances. She did have an open seat next to me. I figured she wouldn't mind.

I kept my head down and unpacked my things. The Hufflepuff had cropped blonde hair, a round, oval face, and warm brown eyes. When she smiled, she exposed a sweet pair of dimples. She sent a surreptitious glance at McGonagall and then offered her hand to me under the table. I hesitated, hoped she didn't notice that I hesitated, and then shook it.

"Alice Fortescue. Nice to meet you, Miss Tardy."

"It's Black. Callidora Black." I said, releasing her hand to shift my quills around. "Do you mind if I sit here…?"

"Not at all. I hope you're good at this stuff though because I don't rather think that I am."

"Transfiguration?" I asked. I hummed and sent a glance at McGonagall to make sure she wasn't look at us. "No."

"No?" Alice echoed. "You're a Black, aren't you? I thought your lot were good at everything. That's what all the inbreeding is for, my dad says. What's the point of it if you aren't even good at Transfiguration?"

I rolled my eyes, a bit stung by her words. "Why indeed…" I huffed.

I decided that focusing on McGonagall's introduction to Transfiguration was more important than listening to the Hufflepuff slander my family, much as I disliked them. I needed to learn this stuff anyway. I would be needing all the help I could get just to pass this. I wasn't the snazziest with delicate magics in the first place and after my less than stellar introduction to Dragon McGonagall, I had the feeling that if I didn't try my best in this subject, I was going to have to seriously worry about having my head bit off.

Alice seemed to realize she had offended me, but didn't apologize. Not out of any cruel intent, I felt, but because she was simply too awkward to know how to. She sent me little glances, twisted her quill in her hands, twiddled her thumbs, and stared at me for far too long with her mouth open only to end up saying nothing at all. I ended up feeling pretty rubbish by the time my first Transfiguration lesson was done, if only because she looked miserably guilty and I knew it was all my fault.

My wounded pride did not like being shelfed for the time being, but I realized that it had to be done.

As soon as Professor McGonagall dismissed us, I left my dismally normal needle on the desk and packed up the rest of my belongings. Now I was the one sending Alice looks while she stubbornly focused on her things. She had turned her needle into a splinter, which she had been proud of at the time, until she glanced at my needle and went very quiet. She hadn't even been able to celebrate her achievements without feeling bad.

Did I mention that I was beginning to feel rubbish?

Because I was beginning to feel rubbish.

She had just packed her inkpot away when I cleared my throat at her. She started so bad she knocked her knees into the desk and her elbows into her chair. For her sake, I pretended not to notice. I said, "Sorry." thinking that I would be able to follow it up with something else. I overestimated myself there.

Alice stared at me. "… Sorry?" She ended up squeaking. It must have been enough for her to build up her confidence, because then she was speaking without stopping for a breath. "Sorry for what? You didn't do anything. I was the one who went and put her foot in her mouth!"

"It isn't like you said anything _untrue._ "

"It was still rude." She insisted, the tips of her ears red. "Just because your family sucks doesn't mean I can _tell_ you that. It isn't like you _know_."

"I do, actually." I ended up blurting, completely nonsensically. Eleven years of conditioning to believe that being a Black made you practically royalty, out the drain, just like that. Suddenly all that mattered was washing that guilty expression off this child's face. "You're right, they're terrible and I shouldn't have been offended."

Alice looked at me, baffled. "They're still your family. Of course you're offended."

"But they're a terrible family."

"They're still _family._ " Alice insisted, suddenly not so mousey. She frowned at me like I'd said something horrible. "Everyone loves their family even if they're terrible! There's no reason for you to be apologizing when I'm the one that cocked up." Alice stopped, face suddenly going red. I blinked at her. She whispered, "Don't tell anyone I said that."

"Said what?"

"… Cocked up, of course." She cleared her throat. "Dad says to me that I can't be using that word until I'm older. This is a bit of situation though so I slipped up. Make sure you remember that."

There was a tiny frown line between my brows. I nodded, a bit awkwardly, and mumbled, "… Right…"

Alice cleared her throat.

I looked away a bit. We stood in silence until I said, "I won't accept your apology. You said nothing wrong."

Alice frowned. "I'm still going to apologize. I shouldn't've said that about your family, even if they're a bunch of arses." She paused again. "Don't tell anyone I said that word either." I nodded. Alice fiddled with her bag. She fumbled for words for a while. I had this dreadful feeling in my gut like Professor McGonagall was about to bodily throw us from the classroom if we didn't leave soon. "I know this is a bit strange to ask but do you reckon we could be friends?"

I made a strangled noise. "What, friends? Are you serious?"

Alice ducked her head. Due to her lack of long hair, I could still see her face. She looked… uncomfortable, was the closest word I could think of to suit her. "Well, if the idea is so repulsive to you, then no, I'm not serious! It's just—you looked lonely today—and you didn't seem to have any friends—"

"I have friends." I instantly protested. "They aren't in this class is all."

"Of course you do." Alice sounded sceptical enough to offend. "I didn't mean to… I was just asking. You don't have to say yes!"

"Do you, do you want me to say _no_?"

"No! I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want you to say yes!"

"Oh." I said. "So you _do_ want to be my friend?"

"Yes. Yes! It'd be nice, since neither of us have any, you know?"

"But I — I _have_ friends?"

Alice frowned at me again. "If you want to say no then say no." She told me coolly, ears still red. "Don't make up excuses, that's the _worst_ —"

"I'm not making up excuses!" I insisted. "I _do_ have friends! They're just — not here, but I _do_ have them." Although I wasn't sure that I could count Xenophilius among my ranks. I supposed I had one and a half friend then, which was still enough to warrant plurals.

"Agrippa's _pants,_ fine then. Fine!" Alice's entire face was glowing like a sunrise now. She readjusted her bulging back and prepared herself to stomp away. "You don't want to be my friend, then fine, we aren't friends!" The dramatic twirl and storm off would have been better with long hair, I thought, and then shook my head.

I really had no idea what was happening but I had this feeling that I had somehow insulted Alice. If only I knew what I'd done to insult her! I picked up my bag and shouldered it. I sent a glance over my shoulder: Professor McGonagall was watching us with her eyebrows raised above her thin-wired spectacles, a look of bemusement on her face.

"Onwards, Miss Black." She said, a smile twitching at the corners of her thin lips. "Least you arrive late to your next class."

I was so flustered by the confusing confrontation with Alice that I actually _blushed_ at my Transfiguration professor. I felt out of control. I didn't much like the feeling. I had to leave this classroom, like, _yesterday._ I went after Alice, who did not look pleased at being caught up to. She huffed and said, "Are you going to make fun of me again?"

"I'm not making fun of you?" I said. Or asked? I wasn't sure. I felt woefully off-balance. "At least, I didn't — _think_ that I was making fun of you. Was I?"

"You definitely were!"

"Well, I wasn't meaning to?"

Alice stopped walking. She looked a bit more embarrassed than usual. "You… weren't? Oh." The blush took up her entire face. "Then… what are you here for?" She asked, looking afraid of the answer.

 _Her_ embarrassment ended up embarrassing _me_. I sniffed and turned away from her. I didn't remember befriending Pandora to be so difficult. "You never let me answer the question." I reminded her, stubbornly refusing to look at her and take in her reaction. "Yes."

"… What?"

"That's my answer. Yes."

There was silence. I chanced a glance in the little girl's direction. She was staring at me with bulging eyes. I turned away from her and reverently wished for Pandora's presence. This could have all been avoided if I shared Transfiguration with my best friend, I just knew it.

"… What was the question again?" Alice eventually said. I choked on something: spit, probably. "S-Sorry, but I was so angry that I forgot. Could you— _oh._ I remember now." I clicked my tongue and shook my head. How bad did your memory have to be? Alice fiddled with her fingers. "So, you _do_ want to be friends?"

"Yes." I answered for the third time. "Sure. Why not?"

"Even though you're a Black and I'm a Fortescue and you should think I'm a blood-traitor?"

"Uh, sure."

"And I insulted you and your family and think the Black's are barmy for the whole inbreeding thing?"

"It isn't like you're the only one who thinks that, are you?"

" _Oh_. Oh." Said Alice. She tried on a smile. "We're friends then?"

"I suppose." I answered. "We might have been a couple of minutes ago if you hadn't overreacted but I guess later is better than never."

Alice's face was practically radiated heat like a flame. She squeaked a bit and ducked her head. "… I _did_ overreact, didn't I?" I nodded instantly, not even trying to make her feel better, because she _had_ overreacted, and _I_ was still feeling the effects of _my_ confusion even though everything was cleared up now. That morning had been far too flustering already. I was quite finished with it. "Sorry then. Do you wanna walk to our next class together? What've you got?"

"History of Magic."

"Wicked, so've I. I know a lot on this subject — my dad got the highest ever score for it during his O. when he was at Hogwarts — so I can help you with it if you're struggling. Nothing at all like Transfiguration. I'm totally rubbish at that, of course, I'm sure you know."

I tried to smile. "Not worse than me."

Alice smiled brilliantly at me, as if to say, 'well done on interacting with another human being without screwing it up!'

Was it _that_ obvious that I had no clue what I was doing…?

Alice continued to talk to me, about the Hufflepuff common room and how nice the breakfast was, and I listened. Or tried to. I wasn't sure how successful I was with my mind wandering as it was, but I hoped, at least, that she didn't notice that I was struggling. I didn't need to crush her spirit any more than I already did today.

Were _all_ Hufflepuffs this sensitive? Dear Merlin.

I hated school.

.

* * *

.

One of the reprieves from school was that Pandora, for all that she was remarkably intelligent and wiser than her years, was nothing more than a typical eleven year old girl at the end of the day. Eleven year old's didn't have the longest of memories and were really quite fickle, so in the end, all it took for her to stop sending me concerned glances was the concentrated persistence of pretending that I was alright. By the time morning tea came around, Pandora had essentially forgotten all about my strange display during the sorting.

Her and Alice got along as well as could be expected. Alice was as confusing and sensitive as was apparently becoming usual for us, and Pan had her pure-blood mask up and grinding away until, in a fit, Alice exploded into tears and declared Pandora a 'giant meanie'.

(Pandora's mask had practically shattered at the first tear, and she was spluttering and consoling and disparaging herself to Alice in nanoseconds. I had watched, amused and slightly frightful of Alice's trigger-happy tear ducts, and merely shrugged when Pandora had looked at me for help. As if I had any idea what to do.)

By the end of it, they seemed pretty close friends. Pandora's natural charm easily convinced Alice that whatever personality she had been presenting was simply a very detailed hallucination caused by the Hufflepuff's exposure to questionable plants. I thought it must be the only explanation, as Alice was giggling and gasping and murmuring inside jokes with my best friend like Pandora wasn't the reason she'd just been sobbing.

I was beginning to think that I didn't understand children very well.

This was a bit concerning, considering I had to convince the rest of the world that I was a child.

And the fact that I couldn't manage a _Lumos_ by the end of class was, really, just the cherry on top.

.

* * *

.

I had Herbology next with the Slytherins, and only a new batch of Ravenclaws there to support me.

This was _particularly_ sad, as 99% of my house had convinced themselves that I was there to spy on them (The 1% was, of course, made up of Pandora and Xenophilius). To make matters worse, I recognized nearly all of the Slytherins in the class: essentially, all of them were pure-bloods that I had already interacted with outside of Hogwarts. Half of them appeared to be sending me frigid looks. The other half were pointedly refusing to look at me, yet were still muttering… _unkind_ things about me loud enough for me to pick up. I honestly didn't know which one was worse.

Professor Sprout was no help herself. I didn't particularly resent her for being concerned with bigger things that frosty eleven year old's, but I would have appreciated a bit of support from her. Especially since we were only dealing with Spiky Bushes and I was doing a _spectacular_ job at not being bored to death with such a simple plant.

Xenophilius, who had elected to grace me with his presence for the first time that day, gave me a look. Okay, so maybe I wasn't doing that great at being not-bored after all.

"What?" I had been driven to snap at him, perhaps a bit too sharply. The stares of the other students were getting to me. I hardly needed it from him as well. "Do you need something?"

Xenophilius was unmoved by my tone. "You are very good at this subject."

Offense. That was the emotion I was feeling. "You sound surprised."

"Pandora has already filled me in on what you did during Charms." Xenophilius smiled at me and added, with enough good humour to keep me from bristling like the Spiky Bush before him, "Or what you _didn't_ do, as it were."

I flushed at the memory. Even _Pudmore_ had managed the charm by the end of the lesson. I was the only one whose wand refused to cast the simple Lumos spell. "I like plants." I grumbled, turning back to my Spiky Bush. "They are easier to handle."

"'Easier to handle' is not the phrase that comes to mind when talking about a bush that shoots needles." I might have smiled a bit at that, I wasn't sure. "Do you garden at home?"

"Loads." I said, thinking wistfully of the garden that would likely be left to wither while I was gone. "Every day, used to be."

"That's nice." Said Xenophilius. It was a genuine statement which was genuinely surprising. Not even Pandora could fake enthusiasm for my gardening, and Pandora faked a lot of things to spare my feelings. "We don't have a garden at the orphanage. I've always wanted to know what it would be like to have one."

"They're… quite boring, really." I guaranteed him. "You aren't missing out on much."

"I must be, if you're so taken with them."

"It's a boring hobby, I'm told. I'm not afflicted with false modesty, I know that gardening is not a hobby that appeals to most." Xenophilius stared at me with cloudy eyes. I flushed again. I reworded myself, "A lot of people have told me that it's not exciting. As much as I love it, I know not everyone sees it the way I do."

"Why not?" Asked Xenophilius.

"Why what?"

"Why don't they see it the way you do?"

I blinked at him. I turned back to my plant and began fussing with its nestles. "Not many people see the beauty in nurturing a bud into a fully bloomed flower. It takes a long time. We're—we're very young, you know. Very impatient."

"You aren't." Said Xenophilius, and he sounded very curious indeed. "Not even the matron is as patient as you are. If she had all the troublemakers glaring at her for an hour, she'd have snapped already. You haven't."

I did not look at the Slytherins. I wanted to. Visually confirm what I already knew—that they were staring gruesome murder into the side of my head. I resisted because I knew myself, and I knew where staring at their ties would take my mind. I was doing very well so far to not think about anything related to my family (Okay, that was a lie, but at that moment, I wasn't thinking about them, and I didn't want to ruin it for myself). Missing breakfast had the unexpected benefit of skipping the post. I didn't think I was ready to confront my mother.

"I was expecting them to stare." I told Xenophilius. "That changes things."

"Is this about the house thing again? Are they why you looked so ill?"

"I guess." I mumbled, wrinkling my nose. "You wouldn't know but your house is important to your future as a wizard. It says much about your personality, values, and your future."

"What does Slytherin say about those things?"

I huffed. "You sure ask a lot of questions, did you know, Xeno?"

Xenophilius nodded succinctly. "Yup, I know. It's how I figured out that the matron has a short temper, you see. No patience at all. But I like to learn and asking questions is the quickest way to do it." Well, he had a point. "Do you mind?"

"That you ask questions? Not particularly. I just don't like some of the answers I have to give you." Xenophilius blinked at me like I'd said something strange. "Yes? What is it?"

"No one's ever put it like that before." Was all he said, and then suddenly, he was smiling at me. "Would you show me how to garden, Callidora?"

I was oddly touched by the question even though he probably wasn't serious. I beat down that feeling. Brutally. I sighed and rubbed the side of my nose, trying for unaffected. "I… guess. If you are interested in it. There is much more to it than you'd think but if you're okay with that, then there shouldn't be an issue with it."

Xenophilius nodded. "Good. I want to know what you like about this. It must be fascinating."

I shook my head. "You're a strange one, Xeno."

"I've heard that one before." He answered airily, turning back to his small Spiky Bush. He poked it with his wand. It didn't respond. "You should ignore the Slytherins." He told me, seemingly out of nowhere. "That's what they're called right? Their opinions don't matter if you aren't in their house. You don't have to listen to them if you don't want to."

It was such a beautifully naïve statement that I had to chuckle at it. "Thanks, Xeno." I murmured to him. It was nice to have his support even if it amounted to nothing. He was an orphaned wizard who grew up with muggles. He didn't know what pure-blood politics were like and I didn't hold that against him. "That helps."

Xenophilius hummed and nodded.

He then said, "Probably they're jealous because our tower has more cats than their dumb dungeons do."

I clapped my hand over my mouth and snorted.

Xenophilius' proud smile was resplendent.

.

* * *

.

Pandora, Xenophilus and Alice were great company to me at that time. From day one, the three of them did their best to remind me that I was welcomed with them, however subconsciously their actions were. Pandora was the best at her job: she worked to occupy my attention with so much of her that I wouldn't have the physical capacity to care about anyone else, much less the bitterly betrayed Slytherins or the suspicious Ravenclaws. Alice, too, was a breath of fresh air. Her sensitivity was a minefield to navigate, but when she wasn't taken everything out of context and overreacting, she was a bundle of joy that made the world brighter simply by existing. Xenophilius' dream-like way of speaking and thinking—and his weird Welsh accent—helped too, in its own way. It certainly kept me on my toes.

But the truth of the matter was this: they were eleven; the truth of the matter was _this_ : _they_ were _eleven_ , and _I was not_. My attention could not be occupied by them for very long.

They were too young to be skilled at what they were doing (and that was when they were _consciously_ doing it), and I didn't want them concerned themselves with me in the first place. They weren't even teenagers. I didn't want to use them like that, it wasn't even slightly fair to them. They should be enjoying their first day at Hogwarts.

I tried to keep myself under wraps for as long as possible. Whenever my breath would catch in my chest and I would start to think about the betrayal in Narcissa's eyes, I would swallow and force myself to inhale. I would think of how soft my hair was and how much she loved me and I would exhale. Was I thinking about how easy it had been for Andromeda to leave me? Nope. Was I worried about how Bellatrix would react? Of course not. Any thoughts that had my heart pounding and my eyes burning were _locked down._

I was determined not to break in front of those kids.

But determination did not have a history of getting me anywhere. My intrusive thoughts knew how to do their job and easily found a weakness in the steel walls I built around them.

The weakness, of course, was fear.

(I am a prey animal, born afraid.)

At that point of my life, I could not think about my family without thinking about their affiliations. With thoughts of darkness and devourers of death came the rousing of an intrinsic, primal fear. I began to wonder what would happen to me. I began to wonder if being into Ravenclaw had doomed me, condemned me to isolation, and I knew — how could I not? — that my parents treatment of me could not possibly improve after this, and _that_ , more than most things, _scared_ me.

Because the Dark Lord was a real but far away fear for me.

My parents were a constant one.

(I had a dream of her the morning of my first day; of a dead forest, of a clearing of vines and thorns, of my mother in a white dress stained in red, sitting on top of Andy, who was on her bloodied hands and knees. She was handed wine by Narcissa, and when she brought the glass to her lips, the red wine turned into blood — _my_ blood — and she swallowed the essence of me. I looked down at my body and saw that I was shackled by the wrists; the chain controlling me was held in my mother's hand.

She owned me — _every part of me_ — and there wasn't a single part of myself that belonged to _myself_.

She yanked me forward, plugged my nose, and poured the wine down my throat. _What are you going to do about it,_ she had asked me. _What can you do about anything?_

 _I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe_

 _You cannot do a single thing, Callidora Black. This is all that you will ever amount to. The forsaken younger sister of the wicked, the kind, the beautiful. You will be forgotten. You will do nothing with yourself, with your power. A mistake._

My mother, wrapped in white and wine and vines, ruling over Andy and tended by a brittle-boned Cissy, holds the chains of all that I am and keeps it captive. I discover: drowning takes too long. _I would have you choke on the truth of your insignificance._ I gasp and choke and plead and I—

I—

I—

I wake, and I am late for Transfiguration.)

I am a selfish person. The first one I worry about in a bad situation is myself and how I will survive it. I am a taker, a thief, a devourer. This trait of me is one bestowed upon by the cruelty of my mother and the manipulations of my father. You do not go through that home and come out compassionate and kind. It is not a storybook.

Oh, I know that I am telling you this _now_ as a story, a recounting of past events, but at the time, I was not thinking of my virtues or how my motives could be translated into something readers could understand. I was not concerned with the narrative. I was simply a child having a wine glass thrown at her; I did not valiantly jump in front of Narcissa, I did not puff out my chest and defend my Andromeda, I did not back up Bellatrix.

I curled up on the floor and protected myself is what I did.

And I _survived_ it.

And yet, somehow, all my knowledge in surviving Druella and Cygnus was _useless._ This was a situation I had never thought of before, that _they_ had never considered. Their reactions were uncharted territory. I was stranded out in sea.

The thing with that situation was that I didn't know how to — _curl up_ , so to speak. And that was what terrified me. That I couldn't figure out a way to word the entire thing so that I could escape with a slap across the cheek and nothing more. I didn't know how to convince my father to throw a curse two centimetres above my head.

I was petrified at the images my mind had thrown me. My mother had been better lately. _This will set her back,_ my mind assured me. My father had been apathetic. _This will put you in the spotlight of his machinations,_ my mind cowered. Bellatrix has missed you wherever she is. _This will convince her of what Rabastan and Rodolphus have always known — you are worthless and unworthy._

I went about my day with those types of thoughts rushing through my mind. My flashbang friendship with Alice could only measure up as a distraction in comparison to the thoughts and their intensity. I was still raw from the sorting. I had known waking up that the ruse could not be faked for the entire day. Of course I knew. I also knew that I could not do it in front of my new friends or Pandora. They were young, see, eleven years old, and I was a sixteen year old pretender, so good at acting that I sometimes convinced myself. They did not need me dragging them down with me.

So when I sat at breakfast and received the letter, I simply opened it, scanned the first line, closed it, and tucked it into my robes. _It's fine,_ I tell a curious Pandora, _Only Mother._

 _Are things alright?_ Pandora asks, well-aware of pure-blood expectations. The youth is already going away in her face. She is forcing herself to grow up in the expectation that she will have to comfort me.

I feel like garbage. _Things are perfect. There is nothing for you to worry about, Pan._

 _Good._ She says, and turns to Xenophilius. _Tell us more about Matron Grimilda, Xeno. Why do you sound like you hate her so?_

 _She is a hateful person,_ replies Xenophilius, and the topic of my letter is forgotten. Just like that.

They're only children.

I couldn't burden them with it. If I was to only achieve a short, insignificant amount in my life, let it be this act of mercy. I eat my boiled potatoes and Xenophilius eats his kosher foods and Pandora skips straight to desert and they are unblemished by my mother's words.

I snuck away as the Prefers escort them to the tower to read the letter in an alcove.

.

* * *

.

I lost track of time, forgetting myself in my mother's words, in the methodical and elegant way she weaved her disapproval. I read the letter the first time numbly and finished it in a minute. And then I read it again, slowly, to allow the poison time to settle into my bloodstream. I read it a third time, slower still, letting the disgrace of this swallow me whole.

I read it a fourth.

A fifth.

A sixth.

A seventh, eighth, ninth, tentheleventhtwelfth _twentieth_ time. I bared my chest to her words and let the twenty-first revisit shoot a spear through it, my light, the girl, the last bit of hope I had for ever earning her love.

… _the actions of a blood-traitor, wilfully disgracing this family's good, reliable name…_

… _and now, Evan is reconsidering his marriage to Andromeda… who wants to marry someone related to the fallen Black…_

My youth was a tiny, dying glow in the palm of my hand. Misunderstood and frightful. Left to burn like the tendrils of a cold blue flame. There was a numbness that seeped into me like a winter-blown kiss, veins of ashes and embers; a paper moth with flaming wings that eats itself.

… _do not even entertain the belief that you will be forgiven for this most grievous insult…_

… _Dear Callidora, When I received the news, I was not even surprised, not truly… after all, from who else could I expect to be so severely disappointed by if not by you, my least favourite spawn…_

Happiness became an old ghost sitting in the kitchen sink accompanied by a bottle of vermouth wine and a cathedral of broken plates. I sat in the alcove with the parchment crumpled in my hands and I began to cry, and feel, and became nothing more than tangled, twisted emotion wrapped in bone and muscle and flesh.

I had not even loved my mother. I was not fond of her. She was one of the three true banes to my existence.

But to be disgraced from her and named a blood-traitor — _dear god_ — I could not have _prepared_ myself for the pain. I had learned how to silently cry when I was three years old. It was a necessity in my house; you never knew would unnecessary noise could spark the flame of Father's explosive temper. And here I was, in the darkness of a public school, sobbing so hard I felt my ribs would crack.

I didn't understand it. I didn't love her. I didn't even _like_ her. I hated both of my parents.

And now, now I knew for certain that they returned the sentiment.

My parents hated me.

(What had I _done—_ )

I could not face Narcissa. If I was uncertain before, I wasn't now. If I could disappoint Mother and Father, who I had never aspired to please, then I could not imagine my fall from grace in my sister's eyes—in _any_ of their eyes. I didn't want to fathom the emotion I would find in her eyes. I didn't want to fathom the emotion I _wouldn't_ find.

I placed my head between my knees, braced my arms over the crown of my head, and thought, _Callidora, your life kind of sucks._

Hilarious. I cried. And I laughed. And I turned my face so that I could bite my leg and try to get myself under control. And then I cried again.

This is it, this was it. My lowest point. Crying over a mother who had not even loved me. How much more pathetic could you get?

… _who else but you could so severely disappoint me…_

In the periphery of my attention, I could catch footsteps, rustling, small grunts and harsh whispering. _Filch_ , I thought, and then: _Let him catch me._

What could he possibly do to hurt me?

Or maybe it was a Prefect. The idea of a Prefect finding me was even more laughable than the idea of Filch finding me. Deducting points and receiving detention was the least of my concerns. At least, I thought, at least at least at least I was not thrown out on the streets. I could still return to the house when holidays arrived, I would not be homeless in the physical sense, only the emotional.

… _my least favourite…_

I was the first Ravenclaw in the Black family for a century.

How could I have let myself believe that that was more acceptable than being the first Gryffindor? It was bigger than a house rivalry. I had carelessly stomped over a _century-old tradition_ and had thought that I could _get away with it._

This was treacherous behaviour. I had realized it too late, as I oft did, but that was what it was. It wasn't a matter of 'Gryffindors are stupid' or 'Ravenclaw is full of nerds'. It was, _my mother was a Slytherin and so was her mother and so was her mother's mother and her mother's mother's mother_ and _this_ is a cycle that I have broken, I have betrayed perhaps the most simplest expectation my family has ever had of me, and I was truly ignorant of the severity of my crimes until a shouted-word too late.

And yet.

And _yet;_

There was one thing still inside of me, among this revelation and heartbreak and guilt, and it was this:

 _Pride._

 _Not the racists,_ I had begged of the hat.

 _I know what I am doing, Camila Jimenez._ It had replied. It had _not lied_ to me.

I had a blood-traitor Hufflepuff friend and another orphaned Welsh possible-muggleborn one. I had made someone cry today and it was not because of the sharpness of my words, it was not my inbred cruelness that brought her to tears but my social awkwardness. I befriended a male that I was not expected to marry, that was interested in my gardening and admired my stillness and patience. I had a pure-blood best friend who was sorted into the same house as me; into a house of open-minded beings who simply thirsted for knowledge and nothing more.

Not the racists.

The hat had not lied to me.

I was free, in a way. The beast trapped inside of me was no longer pacing in its cage. Not the racists. I lived in a tower full of scented candles and sleeping bushy-tailed cats and kind seventeen year old boys who took time out of their studious studying to assure me that McGonagall would not humiliate me.

I had disobeyed my mother and lived to tell the tale.

I know what I am doing, Camila Jimenez.

(I was in pain. It was not a sweet pain, nor a kind pain, nor a pain that I could work past easily, but like a Snargaluff, among this shroud of thorns and vicious vines of horror and torture, there was a pod, a blossom, a seed of—of _hope._ If I could survive this—and I would, I had to, I had many things to do yet—then what else could I survive?)

The shuffling reached me. I prepared myself for the hiss of a cat or the stern words of a Prefect.

I received a warm body pressed to my side instead.

There was something inside me that knew who it was. I had to look up anyway, because this was something that I needed to confirm with my eyes. I untucked myself and looked to the side and saw storm grey eyes exactly like my own staring right back at me.

"Sirius."

Sirius looked cold and angry and oddly sympathetic. In his clenched hand was the letter Mother had sent me. He had been reading it while I was crying. I gathered he was not pleased with its contents.

"… What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, 'course." Was his short reply. "Saw you get your letter during the feast."

"… So you snuck out to look for me…?"

"Yeah." He said simply. He raised the letter in my face. "D'you mind?" I stared at the letter. It seemed I'd made it largely unreadable due to my crying. I shook my head at him. He sent me a smile composed entirely out of molten steel and placed the letter on the ground before me. He jabbed his wand at it and said, coolly, " _Incendio._ "

The letter went up in flames. I watched the ink be consumed and felt an unclenching deep in my chest. My eyes were watering again. It was going up in ashes.

( _Free._ )

"… Are you okay?" I asked, voice croaky and nearly inaudible. It was a good thing the corridor was practically dead silent apart from the crackling of the letter, otherwise he wouldn't have heard me at all. I was nearly whispering. "Ravenclaw isn't even that bad and Mother didn't take it well… I can't imagine how Lady Black took the news…"

"Somehow, I don't think _you_ should be the one asking that question." Sirius barked a short laugh. I continued to peer at him, head rested on my knees now. He looked away from me, just a flicker, but it was enough to communicate his true feelings. "She sent me a Howler. You know how she likes to scream."

"During breakfast?" I asked, after a pause. Sirius nodded. "… What did it say?"

"'Blood Traitor.' Nothing else except that." Sirius answered evenly. He shrugged. "Short and shrieky, exactly as she likes it. Nothing big. Not five pages long like yours is. Was." He cleared his throat and shrugged. Again.

I stared at him blankly for a bit, still sniffling. My stomach felt all in knots from the sobbing. I felt embarrassed at the crying now that I was finished with it. I also felt imperceptibly lighter. "The fact that you're actually trying to convince me that you don't care is pissing me off." I told him.

There was a snort that did not belong to either me or Sirius. I jerked, eyes snapping to the producer of the sound. A lanky kid with tanned skin, messy hair, and glasses sliding off the bridge of his nose was looking back at me. He had the nicest hazel eyes I'd ever seen as Callidora Black. He raised his hand and waved. "Wotcher, Cal."

"Don't call me Cal." I told him snappily. There was an instant grin on his face. In resignation, I prepared myself for him _always_ calling me Cal. I recognized that look in his eyes. It was the look Sirius got in his when he was about to be a little shit. I turned to Sirius and pursed my lips. "Who's _he_."

"My mate James." Sirius replied, a dancing little smirk on his face. "Met on the train: he helped me hex Flint and we both god detention for it. We're life-partners now." There was an implication in his sentence—that he'd finished detention and immediately searched for me—that made me feel warm all over.

(He was making it rather hard to hate him. As per usual.)

" _Are you_ now."

"Yep." Said Sirius.

James spoke up for the first time (the first _real time_ , at least, since a greeting didn't really count) since he decided to lurk in the shadows. "It's mutual. We've discussed it." James shot Sirius a pair of thumbs. Sirius' grin only stretched wider. I looked between them and felt a twang deep in my bones. I was happy for Sirius. I was also feeling very jealous and selfish.

He was mine first, I wanted to tell James. Except it wasn't that at all. Sirius had always been James'. Somehow. I didn't really have any claim over my cousin. Not in the first place, and certainly not any more.

"Well…" I said, unnecessarily loud and cutting into their game of 'who can make the most ridiculous facials at each other'. "… Merry met, James Potter."

"Yeah, you too, _Cal._ " Responded James, carelessly and unconcerned, _still_ with that trouble making grin on his face. "Bit crap that we had to meet while you were wailing in an empty corridor, 'course, but still. Good to meet you and all that. You know, Sirius has been worrying about you since the sorting?"

I blinked. "What?"

Sirius blinked. "What— _James, no!_ "

"James, yes." Said James, trotting on forward to sit himself in front of me, looking quite proud of himself for putting that horror on Sirius' face. "It's true, I'm not fibbing! I'm actually quite the trustworthy guy. I wouldn't lie to a distressed girl like yourself"—he said, and this time, both Sirius and I snorted in unison, which really only made James look even happier—"well, this time I'm not, because _this time_ the truth is better than anything I could make up."

" _This time._ " Sirius echoed, a look in his eyes. James waggled his eyebrows. Sirius snickered again.

"You were worried about my sorting?" I turned to Sirius.

He rolled his eyes at me. "You looked like you were about to barf. Not that you don't usually look like that, but it was worse, so, I dunno, _maybe._ More likely is the fact that James is lying about this entire thing to make me look bad. It is a thing he would one-hundred-percent do, especially in front of you, the one family member I am not currently at odds with. He wants to ruin my life, you see."

James snickered. "Mate, your life is ruined enough without me interfering with it. No offense." This was absent-mindedly sent in my direction, followed by a sympathetic smile that clearly said, _Sorry your family sucks._

I was already largely and very unwillingly charmed by James Potter. That was a bit annoying. He hadn't done much and his first interaction with me was watching me cry while standing next to Sirius (who, I imagined, had taken the cover of my crying to read the letter over a few times). Plus, everything about him spelled mischief, and mischief was loud and interfered with my peace and quiet, and was not usually a trait I enjoyed in people.

"None taken." I responded, wiping my nose on a hanky I pulled from my pockets. "I wasn't about to barf."

"You _looked_ it." Sirius harrumphed. "I was prepared to conjure a bucket under you to catch it and everything. Would have been a brilliant display of magic. Reckon I would have gotten an award for it, you know."

"Pretty sure they don't give out awards like that." Said James. "… _Yet._ "

Sirius grinned again. "I'll be sure to mention you in my acceptance speech."

"Cheers, mate."

I sighed. "You two clowns could make a widower laugh at her husband's funeral."

"I think that was a compliment. You hear that James? She thinks we're _funny._ "

"Class acts." James agreed. "Mum reckons that if you're good at something you shouldn't do it for free. Don't suppose we could start charging for this?"

Sirius' eyebrows raised. He said, "Twenty knuts for each chuckle, giggle, or snicker. Fifty sickles for a laugh. Anyone who snorts when they laugh has to pay a galleon just to make up for their horrendous sounding laugh."

"Anyone who makes _us_ laugh gets half of their money back." James said decisively. "To keep them interested, you understand. If all we do is take their money from them, they're gonna revolt and we don't have the man-power to fight off an unamused revolution."

"Not even with Remus?"

"What's he going to do, fold his socks at them?" James looked truly baffled. "Probably we could get Frank on our side. Somehow. And the mousy looking bloke in the fifth bed."

"McKinnon knows a few nasty hexes. We'd be able to face against the French Revolution if we have her in our corner."

"You would know," I mused, accidentally reminding them that I was there. I said to James, "Marlene McKinnon, right? We've met her before at some pure-blood function. Siri here dropped his toffee apple down her shirt and thought it'd be a good idea for him to rifle around for it. She hit him square in the face with a Bat Bogey hex, she did."

Pure unadulterated glee. That was the only way to explain the look on James' face. " _No._ " He gasped, sounding aghast and impossibly exited. Sirius closed his eyes and sighed.

"Yeah." I said, raising one of my eyebrows.

James clapped his hands in front of his face and bowed his head. When he lowered his arms and raised his head, it was to say, " _No._ That's too good. Did she really? Tell me everything."

"Merlin, Cal, must you…"

"I _must,_ Siri. _I must._ "

James looked wild with joy. "Everything, Cal. _Every dirty detail._ "

.

* * *

.

In the end, it's James' uproarious laughter that catches the attention of a wandering Prefect.

Ravenclaw, luckily, and the boy from the common room that morning even. He'd been all stiff-upper lip and disappointed voice until he saw that I'd been crying and then he'd stuttered and shifted awkwardly and asked, all softly, _if I was alright now._ I assured him that I was fine thanks to the boys — less of a lie than I intended it to be — and would simply like to be taken back to the Tower, if that was okay with him.

Sirius and James, of course, got themselves handed a pair of matching detentions. Purposefully. The Prefect had been naturally wary of the Gryffindor's presence on the first floor when the boys had rushed to assure him that they were out late because they were walking back from a detention with McGonagall, honest, just go check with her and she'll tell you herself! The Prefect was in the middle of letting them off the hook when Sirius, thoughtfully, wondered aloud if it were possible to get a month of consecutive detentions for unrelated infractions.

And then James was agreeing, and then they were both harassing the Prefect to give them detention, thank you very much, and the Prefect, perhaps recognizing that he would be losing this whether he gave in now or an hour later, simply sighed and agreed.

("To Professor McGonagall tomorrow after dinner, boys.")

I thought about hugging Sirius as the Prefect— _Dirk Cresswell works fine, too_ —lead the way to our respective common rooms.

I don't, of course, but I think about it. I wave at him and James though, with a small smile on my face, and I think it gets the message across. Sirius nods at me, but James waves back, cheekily obnoxious. They both saunter away after Prefect Dirk Cresswell without looking back, satisfaction permeating the air around them.

I enter the common room. It is alight with candles. I breathe in the smell of pine that the candles have been charmed to smell like tonight.

I am still hurting.

But now, I feel like I can persevere.

A cat meowed. My eyes were drawn to the sound instinctively as I began to climb the stairs. There was a white cat perched on the armrest of one of the sofas. It was staring at me with green eyes, purring lowly in its chest. Beside its paws was a familiar patch of white hair, attached to a familiar girl curled into a ball. I blinked at the sight of Pandora sleeping in the common room, confused as to why she would, before it hits me.

Something melted inside my stomach.

I approached the couch and pulled off one of the afghans thrown over a nearby sofa. It was big enough for two, which suits me just fine. I unfolded the afghan and threw it over Pandora, who awakened at the first touch of wool to her skin. She pried open her heavy eyelids and peered at me, uncomprehending.

I just tried to focus on making her comfortable. "You waited." I murmured, pulling up her head and putting a pillow behind her neck.

Pandora blinked a couple of times, slowly and exhaustedly. "You're here." She groaned in reply. She shifted, getting comfortable in the blanket, and then froze, staring at me with a bit more focus. "…Didn't come with us back to the tower. Noticed."

"No, I didn't."

Pandora didn't ask why. She didn't close her eyes either.

"The letter wasn't nothing." I confessed.

Pandora closed her eyes. There was a bitterly pleased smile on her face. "Knew it." She croaked, still in that tired voice. "Should have told me. Look like you've been crying."

"I have been."

Stronger this time, and opening her eyes to slits, Pandora repeated: "Should have _told me._ " I nodded, because she was right, I should have. She was young and innocent but I was still her best friend. Pandora would have told me if the situation had been reversed.

Relaxing, the little blonde girl nodded to herself. I asked, "Are you gonna come up?"

"Too tired." was her prompt reply. "Down here with me. Stay."

"Lemme change into my pj's."

"… Kay." She mumbled, yawning. She snuggled deeper into her blanket and curled her knees up higher. The left side of the couch was entirely unoccupied. I imagined that was where I was supposed to sleep. "…be too late… or dis'pear again…"

"I won't." I assured her. "Go to sleep. I'll be right back down."

"….mmm."

.

* * *

.

 _(A new day dawns; Pandora Travers wakes with the sun, as she always has, and feels a shock of cold toes brushing against her calves. She smiles, slow and sleepy and satisfied, because she knows those freezing ice-block feet. Looking to the side, she sees her best friend, deep asleep with her face smashed into the crook between the cushion and the back of the couch, swaddled in a brown afghan, leeching as much warmth as she can from Pandora._

 _Pandora hums, lies back down, and closes her eyes._

 _She'll sleep in today.)_

 _._

...

.

" _What horrifies me the most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age._ **"**

.

...

 **.**

 **…**

 **.**

...

Authors Note:

I've been lax on the hardcore angst lately this is me fixing that. Honestly this chapter is a bit boring but w/e, last chapter drained me dry. 'Isn't she crying a bit too much, Del?' Well pals, she's pretty obviously experiencing the feelings she locked down last chapter, so there is always that to consider. What, you thought that mental breakdown started and finished there? Nah mate. _Nah._

James was, indeed, dragged out in the middle of the night to satisfy Sirius' curiosity. His 'Sad Callidora' senses were tingling lol.

(I love Pandora Travers don't even play)


	5. soon we'll be found

**Title:** fish hooks in the corners of their mouths

 **Summary:** "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]

 **Rating:** Tentative T

 **Disclaimer:** Disclaimed.

 **Dedication:** To **billy** , **enbi** , and **bluejanes**. Never underestimate the power of support systems, kids.

 **Warnings:** this chapter is boring asf

.

* * *

06.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _soon we'll be found_

* * *

.

I was dreaming a rather unpleasant dream when Pandora kicked me awake. Rather unceremoniously, too.

I didn't bother opening my eyes, hoping that my groan would hold off any other attacks she was hoping to land. "Come on," She said, sounding like she was moving. As she walked by me again, she shook my shoulder, so I guess my groan didn't do its job properly. "It's late, you need to get up otherwise you'll miss breakfast."

I groaned, mumbled something that I couldn't really understand, and wrapped the covers tighter around myself. Getting up wasn't on my agenda this morning. It was only the seventh day of school and I was quite finished with it. I had expected to last a month before tiring of the thing, honestly, but apparently I'd overestimated myself.

Pandora huffed. "Cal! Come _on_ , stop falling asleep. Flitwick will have your _hide_ if you're late again."

"Ohne'l b'n l't ee'imes." I lifted my head to say, happily throwing my face back into Pandora's pillow when I'd said my piece. I felt my body rapidly relaxing back into the bed, my dream returning to me in crawling increments. My awareness of the room dulled until my mind believed it was no longer in a Scottish castle but instead, ankle-deep in water cool, standing beneath a tree. I breathed in and thought I could smell a forest around me. My stomach twisted. I was hungry, so I reached for some fruit, but I couldn't reach it, even though it was hanging in front of my face. My mouth was parched. I was thirsty, so I bent down to cup some of the water in my hands, but the tide receded before I could hold it in my palms.

 _let me eat let me drink let me survive—_

Just as I was beginning to remember why the dream was so frustrating, Pandora called back, "Three times is already thrice too often!" I snapped back to the Ravenclaw dormitories, groaning _extra_ loud so that Pandora could hear me from the bathroom. It sounded like she was tearing a brush through her hair, as rough as she always was with her not-so-silken locks. "Have you fallen asleep again?"

I mumbled.

"Cal!"

I planted my hands on the bed and pushed myself up. "I'm _awake!_ " I yelled back, a bit irritated, before my arms collapsed and I was eating the pillow again.

"Then would you _get up_ and _shower?_ "

"I showered last night."

"What was that?"

 _Ughh._ "I said, I showered last night!"

"Well, you must have gotten warm in the night, because you've sweated through your pyjamas and you don't smell pleasant at all." Said Pandora, opening and slamming cupboards. I sighed and squashed the pillow over my head. Didn't help much. "I'd prefer if you showered." She said pointedly, and I heard the soft sound of her spraying a bit of perfume. Probably the one that made her smell like a bouquet of white roses — it was the one her cousin gifted her before she boarded the train. It was her favourite these days.

I missed the frangipani one, personally. I gave up and rolled over onto my back. "It's September."

"So?"

"It's only autumn, how could I have gotten warm in the night?"

"I don't _know_ , Cal, why don't you ask your body why it decided to sweat? Would you get up already!" Fed up, I rolled right out of the bed and didn't both to catch myself. I landed with a loud thud on the carpet and groaned for probably the sixteenth time this morning. I was doing my best to just _not exist_ as solid matter. "Thank you!" She sung.

"Whatever." I grumbled to myself, safe in the knowledge that Pandora couldn't hear the tone I was using when my mouth was against the carpet. I spit out the wool and pulled myself to my feet, searching for my trunk, which was at the end of the bed beside Pandora's (she had woken me up earlier, to a lesser success than this attempt which maybe had something to do with the fact that as soon as she had turned around, I'd flopped onto her bed and fell right back to sleep). Pulling out my uniform and toiletries, I stomped into the bathroom with little grace.

Pandora was twisting her hair into a ponytail, using the a lock of blonde hair to tie it back so the style looked cleaner. She glanced at me in the mirror when I walked in, lips curling into a little smile. "You look ghastly." She said, far too gently. I glanced at my reflection. I had to disagree with her statement.

Ghastly was too kind for my current state.

She continued, "I almost mistook you for your sister."

"My eyes are too blue for that."

"Well, it isn't like I can see your eyes when they're like that, can I?" I grunted. I could barely see myself with how low my eyelids were hanging. Pandora's smile grew. "What was that? I don't speak troll."

"Get new material." I sniffed, checking to make sure there were clean towels.

"When you learn how to act like an ordinary witch in the morning, I will. But until then..." Pandora said snippily. I rolled my eyes, yawned, stretched out my back a bit, and then placed my hands on Pandora's shoulders. She made a confused noise when I started to turn her around and walk her out of the room, but didn't resist me. "Shower quick, but not too quick! You really do smell." She made _sure_ to say as I marched her out. Typical.

I positioned her carefully outside the room, smiled, and slammed the door in her face. I quickly stripped and turned on the shower, stepping under the scalding spray. The water was loud in my ears as I lathered my hair with shampoo, but I could still hearing Pandora's giggling through the door. I rolled my eyes again and scrubbed my face. I needed a new best friend.

I showered quickly, not even bothering with conditioner, but spent a lot of minutes simply rubbing soap into my skin. I didn't stop until I was sure I didn't smell rank. Pandora was right, I really did stink. I guess my dream wasn't as harmlessly frustrating as I'd thought if it worked me up so much in my sleep.

Getting changed was a bit of a chore since I didn't take the time to dry properly, so my clothes were sticking to the most inconvenient places. I huffed, detached my white shirt from my shoulder blades, and shrugged on my robe.

I grabbed the two blue and bronze ties from the basin as I left, throwing one of them at Pandora's ducked head. She was moisturising her legs. The tie smacked her in the ear. "You forgot that," I said, ignoring the way she jumped.

She picked up the tie and checked the tag. "This isn't mine."

I already had my tie (or _her_ tie, apparently) around my neck, fiddling with knot. "Who cares? They look the same."

"Yours is too tight."

"You _tie it wrong._ "

Pandora's face went pink. " _I do not._ " She said, lying through her teeth. "Your tie is too _short._ "

I paused in tightening my tie and rolled my eyes again, undoing all my work and yanking it from my neck. I threw her tie at her and stomped over to grab mine, grumbling the entire way. "You happy now?" I asked, making short work of my, apparently undersized, tie. I straightened it and went scavenging for my woolly grey socks and shoes, which turned out to be hiding underneath our roommate's bed, Eliza Finch. She had already left for breakfast with the rest of our roommates, because they didn't take an hour to get ready, nor did they sleep in until the last minute.

As soon as I was finished tying my laces, I grabbed my bag and dropped the load on my shoulder. I turned around. "I'm ready. What do you think they're serving for breakfast?" Pandora didn't answer, because Pandora was doing something hideous with her tie and it was making her face all distressed. She was so preoccupied that she didn't notice me approaching until I was snatching the fabric from her fingers.

"I know what I'm doing." She grumbled, quiet enough that I could pretend not to hear it, letting go of the tie and lifting her chin so I had easier access. Or because she was trying to look dignified. Either one worked.

I untangled the absurd thing and smoothed it out as much as possible without the use of magic. I settled it asymmetrically around her neck and, pointedly keeping my eyes on the tie, asked: "What was that?"

The steam was practically coming out of her ears when she answered, "Nothing. I didn't say anything." I hummed. "I didn't!" It was a bit difficult to remember how to tie a tie the wrong way around, but I got it after a bit of thinking. Better than Pandora's attempts, at least, and she seemed to know it by the way her shoulders were deflating.

I smoothed the tie. "There." I may have tied it better than I tied my own.

"Could you… do it again?" She asked. I blinked. "I—the dimple isn't right. You have the get the dimple right otherwise it looks… wrong."

I looked up and stared at her.

Pandora was very deliberately not meeting my eyes.

"… Seriously?"

"… Please, Cal."

I couldn't help it. I laughed. Pandora's shoulders went from properly-deflated to up-around-her-ears in an instant. Shaking my head, I undid the tie and said, "You're such a narcissist."

Pandora relaxed at my tone, smiling again. "It's called being _groomed._ Not all of us can be satisfied looking like hags in public." She mumbled, quickly followed by: "Don't strangle me please,"

"I have a lot more imaginative ways of killing you, Pan. Strangling doesn't make the bottom of that list."

Pandora tilted her head. "You have a list of all the ways you could kill me? That's so sweet."

"I put a lot of thought into it. Be flattered." I adjusted the tie and tilted my head. "Does this satisfy you, Madam Travers?"

"Oh, hush. It looks splendid, thank you. Breakfast?"

I covered my mouth and yawned. "Yes, yes, lead on then." Pandora's smile widened and she wrapped her arm with mine, escorting me down the stairs and into the common room. She made sure to stop and pet all of the cats in our path, too, which seemed counterproductive to her agenda of not missing breakfast.

Dirk Cresswell was at the fireplace again. "Off to breakfast, girls?" He shouted across the common room, getting sour looks for it by the tireder students. He waved. "Have a good day. Learn something!"

"Thanks."

"You too, Cresswell!"

"Oh, and we're holding a study group during lunch for Transfiguration if you two are interested! You especially, Black. I heard you aren't doing too hot in that class. That, and Charms. And Potions. And History of Magic."

"I think she gets it, Dirk." Said a sixth year that I didn't have a name for. She looked up and peered at me. "Don't worry kid, I'm a P-average student as well. Don't let ole four-eyes here make you feel bad about it." She smiled at me then. I smiled back, but it must not have been a good one, because Pandora was chortling in my ear.

I nudged her in the ribs and she locked her lips together ineffectually. "Thanks," I made sure to say to the sixth year. I wasn't sure what to follow up with. Pandora, luckily, took that decision out of my hands and wrapped up the conversation, dragging me down to breakfast with little fanfare. We didn't speak on the way because the walking was honestly kind of exhausting and I didn't want to waste my breath on words when I needed it to survive the moving staircases.

Pandora must have agreed because she didn't say anything either.

She was annoyingly happy with herself though.

 _Morning people_.

When we arrived at the Hall, Xenophilius was already there, eating eggs and drinking milk. As soon as we were seated, he turned a page in his book and said. "You two are late."

"Cal's fault."

"I was ready before you." I muttered, accepting the marmalade from Xenophilius. I grabbed the strawberry jam by my elbow and put it next to Pandora's wandering hand. "What are you even talking about?"

"You woke up not ten minutes ago."

"No thanks to _you_."

"Did you sleep well?" Xenophilius cut in, eyes still glued to his book. I peeked at it. It was one of those crazy conspiracist novels that my parents hated. For that reason alone I had bought myself a copy, but for once, my parent's hatred had ground. The books were complete drivel. "My roommate snored all night."

"So did mine." I thought I said lowly. Pandora was shooting me an offended glare though, so I don't think it was low enough. I grab a croissant for her instead of apologizing. It works better than a 'sorry' could have anyway. "I slept… alright."

"Did you have another nightmare?" Asked Xenophilius, casual as can be, and I was now tasked with the duty of not jumping in surprise (I failed that duty). Xenophilius lifted his chin and recited: "I am uncommonly perceptive for my age."

"Is that why you were restless?" Pandora asked.

"No. Yes. I don't know. I can't remember what the dream was about." Yes I could. "What about you, Pan? What did you dream about?" Pandora was frowning at me, the effect lessened by the toast hanging out of her mouth. I went back to buttering my toast. "It was nothing, Pan. You don't need to worry about it."

Pandora spit her toast out just so I wouldn't miss the way her lips twisted into a scowl. I winced. "I've heard _that_ one before."

I cleared my throat.

Pandora asked, "What was the nightmare about?"

"Nothing, Pan, nothing that made sense, anyway."

"Mmhm."

"Don't give me that look, I'm not kidding. I can barely even remember it."

"I don't believe you." She said, rather petulantly, actually, though I wasn't about to tell her that. "Are you really not going to tell me?"

I really wasn't going to tell her.

I really wasn't going to tell her.

I really wasn't—

Xenophilius said, "Are you two fighting?"

I was going to tell her.

"No!" Pandora and I snapped at the same time. She turned to me like I'd offended her by speaking at the same time. Oooh, ouch. I guess I really had hurt her feelings.

I shifted uncomfortably in my robes and focused my eyes on my toast. "It was a weird dream." I said, barely loud enough for Pandora to hear me. She leaned in. So did Xenophilius, actually, which I thought was unnecessary. If he took his eyes away from his book for long enough, I'm sure he wouldn't need to strain his hearing so hard to pay attention to me. "It was… I was standing in a lake, kind of? Not in the middle of it or anything, just at the edge, enough that my ankles were covered and stuff. And I was — under this tree? Big thing, a peach tree. It was spring so the fruit was hanging low."

"A peach tree?" Pandora settled back, looking confused. "And a lake? I didn't know trees could grow on riverbanks. Isn't salt bad for plants?"

"It was fresh water, not that that matters. Trees aren't really supposed to be that close to water, it isn't good for their—how did you know that?"

Pandora's ears went red. "I read." She answered defensively. "It's weird that a tree was that close to the water, right? Practically on top of it, even."

I nodded. Xenophilius piped up to say: "There's a great difference between the requirements of a tree compared to a water plant. If water plants were like trees—strong trunks, vascular system, little leaves—then it would waste a lot of energy on supporting the useless roots, trunk, and using the small leaves to receive sunlight underwater."

"What's wrong with small leaves?"

"Sunlight refracts. The leaves need to be disproportionately larger compared to the stem to take in as much sun as possible underwater." I answered. I turned to Xenophilius and raised my eyebrows. "You remembered that from our talk on Tuesday? That was two days ago."

"That's not that long."

"You were reading Shakespeare."

"I'm a good multi-tasker."

Pandora huffed and leaned in, cutting into my conversation with Xenophilius. She shot us both unhappy looks. "What would a tree need to do to survive underwater?"

"I guess… trees would need to figure out a way to turn oxygen into helium and keep most of it trapped within its leaves. We'd have towering ocean forests across the world. The plants would grow as they usually do but with—fluffy leaves? The, uh, the oxygen would ramp up the helium and really—"

"How is this relevant to the dream?" Xenophilius cut in, and then said, "Sorry for cutting in. I just realized that we are off topic. Or was that supposed to happen?"

Pandora blinked, then narrowed her eyes at me. "Was that supposed to happen?"

I shook my head, brain still running through all the evolution trees would have to go through to be able to survive deep water. I had to mentally snap my fingers at myself a lot to keep myself on track. "It wasn't," I absent assured her, trying desperately to keep myself from thinking about the anchoring of a 15 ton oak tree in the middle of the Mississippi. "Honest. I didn't plan for that at all."

Pandora seemed to believe me at least. Her eyes weren't narrowing, and her lips were twitching. "What is she looking at?" Xenophilus was following my line of sight.

"Nothing, she's just thinking. That's her thinking face. Not the thinking face that she uses when she's trying to figure out how to talk to people, either, but the one she uses when she's trying to solve a puzzle."

"How many thinking faces does she have?"

"Uh…" There was a sharp silence. Pandora was counting on her fingers. "Five? Last time I checked. There's the 'I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing' face, the 'I-don't-understand-people-at-all' face, the 'I-wonder-how-to-hold-a-conference-with-bees' face—"

"Bees?"

"Bees. She has this one face where, erm, it's—I don't know how to describe it—but she has it on for around the entire day sometimes and she always ends up having these, these really bad nightmares, I don't know what she thinks about—"

I jolted out of my thoughts by pure force of will (and a bit of horror at the idea that I had a _face_ whenever I thought about the future that was apparently so common that Pandora had it _categorised—_ ) and tore off a strip of toast, dipping it into my egg yolk. "Where did I leave off on that dream?"

"Fruit tree and the lake."

"Right, well. For no scientifically or magically sound reason, the fruit tree was on the bank of the fresh water lake, and I was stuck underneath it. I had the feeling that I'd been there for"— _weeks_ —"a couple of hours, and I was feeling a bit peckish."

Pandora interrupted: "Were there maggots in the fruit?"

"Pixies?" Followed up Xenophilius. Pandora shot him a look. He conceded and said, "Or not-pixies. Turnipish styxies, then."

"Like cornish pixies?"

"Oh, no, nothing like them. Unless cornish pixies like to make nuisances of themselves by pretending to be the stem of your fruit?" Pandora shook her head. Xenophilius smiled enigmatically. "Well, Turnipish styxies like to do that. They're what make fruit sour, or what makes them rot extra quick, see."

Pandora was staring at Xenophilius with a particular sparkle in her eye that I recognized. "You're _odd._ " She said in a tone of great marvel. "You're about the oddish boy I've ever _met._ "

There was a tiny frown line on Xenophilius' face. "I'm not _that_ odd."

"Oh no, you definitely are. Don't make that face! It's fine, it's perfect, oddities are great! We'd be nowhere without them. All the best type of wizards are a little odd. Haven't you seen our Headmaster?" Xenophilius looked like someone had ripped the floor out from under him. He was looking at Pandora, awestruck. "Turnipish styxies, you said. However did you come up with that?"

Xenophilius' face was pink. He looked back at his book—I couldn't remember him looking up from it. He carefully arranged his straggly hair to fall in front of his face. "I think we should let Callidora finish her story."

Pandora blinked. "Oh, of course. Sorry, Cal." She twisted around to face me. "You were hungry and thirsty? What was wrong with the fruit?"

"I don't know." I answered, perhaps a bit shorter than she deserved. I was kind of annoyed with her. I wasn't sure why, only that the feeling was leaking over into my opinion of Xenophilius. "I never ate or drank anything."

"Was the fruit too high?"

"No, it was in front of me."

"Then… was there something in the water?"

"I don't think so. Honestly, I think the water was distilled. Perfect for drinking." As if to compensate for my dream dehydration, I took a large gulp of orange juice. "I just couldn't reach any of it."

The best thing, I thought, about being friends with two Ravenclaws was that their minds worked _fast._

Pandora squinted at me for maybe thirty seconds before hesitantly suggesting, "… You weren't allowed to touch anything? Is that it?" I nodded. "This is why you shouldn't skip dinner, Cal. It gives you nightmares about dehydrating and starving to death." Xenophilius' eyes were laughing, even if his lips only quirked up a little bit. Pandora was grinning at me. "You'd think you'd eat a bit more considering, but you've barely touched your toast."

The only good thing about Pandora's response was that it gave me a solid excuse to be short with her. I grabbed my goblet, scoffed, and mumbled: "I'm not hungry."

Pandora frowned. I felt marginally bad for my tone, but no one liked to have vivid dreams of dehydrating in the middle of a fresh water lake, or reaching for ripe peaches when you hadn't eaten for weeks only to have the food pass through your fingers like smoke. It was a bit grating on the nerves. I took another large swallow of orange juice and looked down the table—opposite of where Pandora was sitting.

An awkward silence settled over the table.

( _…who else but you… could so severely disappoint me…_ )

Suddenly, there were barking owls swarming the hall. I thought I heard Pandora say something, but when I glanced at her, she was studiously looking at the owls. Xenophilius was hiding in this robes. I realized that none of us knew shit about breaking uncomfortable silences—except perhaps me, but I didn't want to, because I was the one who'd imposed it in the first place.

I felt sorry. I _did._ But I felt a bit vindicated as well, and it was a lot stronger than any apologetic feeling.

.

* * *

.

Maybe unsurprisingly, I didn't receive any mail.

.

* * *

.

(Pandora's Mother's great fat Northern Hawk owl dropped an envelope into Xenophilius' eggs and flew off without landing. _Taciturn as always, Socrates,_ I thought fondly. Pandora plucked the letter out from Xenophilius' breakfast and stared at her name, printed in silver ink on the front. I didn't recognize the handwriting, but she did.

Pandora cracked the Travers wax shield, throat clicking. Xenophilius asked, "Who's it from?"

"Tantalus." Said Pandora, eyes greedily scanning the letter. I jumped, nearly dropping my goblet. _Tantalus?_

" _Him_?" I hissed; I was suddenly very angry. I wanted to rip the letter from Pandora's hands and set it aflame in the middle of the Great Hall. "What does _he_ want?" Pandora didn't even send me a reproving look. Her eyes were roving over the letter, swallowing up Tantalus' words like they were biblical. I scowled, mood somehow worsening.

"Who's Tantalus?" Xenophilius asked. Then he blinked. "Wait, _that_ Tantalus…?" He said to Pandora. Pandora nodded.

Something in my gut twisted. "You know who he is?"

"Pandora's brother, yes? She told me during Potions."

I swallowed. It was harder than I expected. I turned away from the both of them. I said again, "What does he want?"

Pandora stared at her letter, folded it up carefully, and tucked it away in her robes. She said: "Nothing. He wants nothing." I didn't believe her. She knew I didn't believe her. But Pandora shakily held my gaze regardless. "He's just… checking up on me."

"He hasn't checked up on you for years." I reminded her.

Pandora turned away from me and said, "Yeah, well, he is now. Why can't you be happy for me?"

I twitched. "BECAUSE HE'S A TERRIBLE PERSON," was a thing I _didn't scream._ But I wanted to, Oho, man, did I _want to,_ and I knew I was screwed because Pandora knew how to read every microexpression I've ever made, and she must have known what I was thinking, because suddenly, she was scowling at me like I'd gone and shouted my feelings to the Great Hall.

She patted the pocket she'd put the letter in and turned to Xenophilius. "How have classes been for you, Xeno?"

I frowned at her, but didn't pursue the subject. Later, I thought. It's always _later, later, later._ I would talk to her later.

We don't talk again all breakfast, and I don't even know why.)

.

* * *

.

I entered History of Magic and sat next to Alice. Alice looked at me, smiled, and said, "Woah, you look ugly today," in the most cheerful voice I had _ever_ heard from her. I closed my eyes and sighed as Alice squeaked and scrambled to explain that she didn't really mean it like that, not like an insult, and that I was very pretty and had beautiful blue eyes, and a nice symmetrical face, she just meant it in like an emotional sense—

"Alice," I interrupted, not really in the mood for this. "I'm not really in the mood for this."

"Right, of course not. Who wants to be called ugly first thing in the morning? Aww, bugger. I did it again. You're not _ugly_ in the traditional sen—ooooh, I'm shutting up now. See, look at me? Shutting up. Please don't hurt me."

I gritted my teeth. "Why does everyone think I'm going to _hurt them?!_ " First Sirius that day in the garden, then Pandora, now Alice?! Did I look _murderous?_ God did I really look that much like my _Mother_ —

Alice squeaked out. " _I didn't mean it like that!_ " There was a sharp silence that followed immediately after. I caught my breath and tried not to let my heart pound so hard in my ears. What was _wrong_ with me?

Someone sniffled. I paused, rushing blush and bounding heart completely forgotten.

Then— "Are you crying, Alice?"

Alice covered her face and whimpered, "I'm sorry I can't help it sometimes! Dad says it's because I have an open heart and I feel things very intensely and that it's _'an honour to have raised a daughter to be as unfailingly compassionate_ ' as I am but honestly it really sucks—"

I groaned. "Alice."

"…Yes?"

" _Please for the love of Merlin will you shut up?_ "

Alice shut up.

(I didn't feel bad.) ((I _didn't._ ))

.

* * *

.

"You should apologize," Said Alice's friend, Edgar, I think his name was? to me at the earliest opportunity. I had stared at him in blunt confusion because at the time I hadn't even remembered who the hell he was. "Alice. You should apologize. You hurt her feelings. Don't you feel bad?"

"I don't feel bad." I said (lie, too late to take it back).

"You scratch your nose when you're lying." He said. I stopped scratching my nose. (When did I start?) "You have the look of someone who hasn't been having a good day."

"What would you know about it?"

"I'm practically a granddad compared to you, firstie."

"Shut up, you're, like, twelve."

"Fourteen!" Edgar Bones corrected me sharply. He sat down next to me. I scooted away from him. He sent me a sour look and scooted back. I glued my butt to the ground and then leaned my torso away from him, which seemed to be a compromise that suited him, because his torso didn't follow my torso. "Whatever. Point is, I like Alice. She's a good kid and her father gives me free ice cream. What did you do to her?"

"Nothing." I answered. I realized I was scratching my nose. I swallowed. "…Okay, so, I might have done something…"

Edgar Bones waited.

"I'll apologize when I see her next."

Edgar Bones waited.

"What? I said I'd apologize. You can leave now."

Edgar Bones….. _waited_.

"Bye!"

Edgar Bones— _you get the point_.

"…Dude." I mumbled. "Cut it out."

"Will you be apologizing?"

Did I really have a _choice?_ I sighed. "Yes, I will be apologizing. Is that all?"

Edgar Bones hummed and nodded. "Yep, sounds about right. Hufflepuffs look after their own. Just fulfilling my duty to the house." He said, and then—then he walked away. He just walked away. I watched him go in complete awe.

I didn't think I would ever understand Hufflepuffs.

.

* * *

.

It was the strangest thing: fighting with your best friend. Not Alice. I apologized to Alice the next time I saw her exactly as I had promised Edgar Bones that I would. I meant my actual best friend, Pandora Travers. She'd left that day at the earliest opportunity and didn't give out a single explanation that I accepted. She was 'going to do homework'? Pandora didn't need to do homework. She was a natural genius.

I wasn't sure for a while what she was doing. I had suspicions, but I didn't want to believe that they were true. That she would honestly keep communicating—

But no, it could not have been that because she hates him as much as I do. Present tense, because we both still presently hate him and always would exist in that state of requited hatred.

I knew Pandora was writing letters but I assumed it was from her mother. When she told me as much, I'd felt my theory popped like a balloon. I knew when my best friend was lying to me. But I held hope, at least, because if I was good at anything, it was lying to myself, and the idea of Pandora talking to that maggot of a brother of hers… I'd rather not think about it at all.

The thing with having a fight with your best friend, you see, is that you never know when to apologize, and don't really know what to apologize for (or was that just me?). So even though I was missing her like a physical thing, I didn't really… do much to soothe the ache. I let Pandora set the pace.

And Pandora wasn't giving any ground.

I kept waking up late due to oversleeping and taking my time in the shower. Any of the improvements I was making in class were slowing down to a complete halt without Pandora's encouragement or tutoring. I ended up spending most of my time in the library, reading advanced work that I knew I would likely never be able to put into action. I ended up in the company of Xenophilius more often than not, coaching him on Herbology.

It became pretty apparent to me in those days of autumn that Pandora was the only thing keeping me afloat. My nerves chafed at the recognition of this truth. But that didn't make it any less true.

(I know I said that Pandora was setting the pace for this, but look, the truth is: after realizing how dependent I was on her, it is— _entirely possible_ that I may have also… encouraged the distance. Just—just to see what would happen. To see how far we could be stretched before bouncing back. I just wanted to, to exist for myself for as long as I could. That's all. It wasn't—it wasn't personal. Not really.)

((Of course, that excuse would have worked if I hadn't gone on to fuse myself to Xenophilius in Pandora's absence, but I mean—I tried, didn't I? I tried.))

.

* * *

.

Transfiguration with Xenophilius was always enjoyable, one way or another. He was a thoughtful guy, you see, and he always had some idea running through his head that he had to put words to. He thought out loud: different from Alice's ramblings, and I don't mean that in an unkind way, but Xenophilius is… _not smarter_ , but more… _tasteful_ than Alice? Is that how you say it? And it wasn't a _universal_ tastefulness. It was a _unique_ one. Xenophilius was… unique. The way he spoke was his own, his thoughts were untethered, his soul a wandering star far away from his physical vessel. It was like whenever he spoke, he was bringing back a curious patch of the universe back from his exploration of a constellation of thought for me to examine. It was-

 _Ugh._ I couldn't put it into words, words didn't do it _justice._

All I knew was that I liked talking to Xenophilius a lot more than I thought I would. I didn't usually mind the topic of our conversations, no matter how personal I thought them. When Xenophilius asked me a question, I felt compelled to answer.

Nothing was untouchable for him when it came to me, I guess.

So when he asked when I was so utterly incompetent with magic, I found myself revealing my theory without hesitation: "I've only ever been able to do magic out of necessity. Like accidental magic, except it isn't triggered by powerful emotion. Just the need to survive."

Xenophilius considerately paused to allow that to sink in. His face didn't change as he replied, "That's messed up."

I laughed. "Or something like that." I muse, startled as much as Xenophilius was about my sudden outburst of amusement. I had been concerning him lately with my 'brooding'. The laughter seemed to add a degree of contentment to Xenophilius' face. "What about you, Xeno? What is your home like?"

"I don't have a home." Responded Xenophilius, which was answer enough, wasn't it?

"Then the orphanage. What's it like?"

Xenophilius flicked his write and turned the needle into a matchstick and back into a needle. Mine had only just began to look like a needle—in that it was silver wood instead of normal-coloured wood. Xenophilius thought deeply about his reply. He thought deeply on a lot of things that I considered insubstantial. It made me want to listen to his response. So when he opened his mouth not five minutes after the question was posed, I was watching and waiting attentively. "It's a place for leaving." He replied.

I had expected him to talk to me about the woodwork or the soft carpets or his favourite matrons. Not that. The casual detached way he'd said it, too, rubbed me the wrong way. I had the oddest compulsion to step closer to him, to move my warmth into his space, close but not touching, so that he would know. _Know_ _what_? I couldn't tell you. All I really knew was that I wanted to be closer for his sake, instead of mine.

(I thought that I must have really been missing Pandora lately.)

"That's not an answer." I gently urged him.

"It's not really a place."

"There must be something good from it." I insisted, because there was something good in everything. "I have sisters. They were the best part of the house."

"Were?" Said Xenophilus.

"Were." I shrugged, pretending this wasn't an iron clamp around my lungs. I could ignore it. Pain was a familiar presence; I did not welcome it so much as I had learned to accept it into my life without disturbing anything else. It was always going to be there, I thought, and I minded it terribly much, though I hoped none of that showed on my face. "I don't think they like me anymore."

"They're your family." Xenophilius said. It wasn't like he was chastising me or feeling sorry for me. It was just a fact—no, a prompt? I still couldn't read Xenophilius too well these days. I was getting better. Just not quick enough. "Family is always supposed to love you, even if they don't particularly like you."

"I suppose you have a point there." I decided to give up on the needle. I didn't care for its progress at all. "Andy's pretty great."

"Andy?"

"Andromeda. She's my sister."

"Is she nice?"

"The nicest person I've ever known." I answered, smiling crookedly. "I think she'd like you."

"If she'd like me then I don't see why I wouldn't like her back." Said Xenophilius, and for some reason, his words warmed me. "Do you look like her?"

"Very much."

"Do you like that?"

"I do, actually. She doesn't resemble Mother as much as one would expect." Like me, Andromeda took most of her facial structure from Father. I disliked both of my parents, and would have preferred to look like neither of them, but if I had to choose, I was moderately pleased to look like my father. The Black genes made for handsome children, and I was vain enough to care about that. "Andy used to let me curl up in her lap and read to me when we were younger. I miss her. She made the best tea."

He made a humming noise at that. "Tea? What type of tea?"

"Jasmine green, of course." I sniffed, sticking my nose up. "But Oolong works just as fine. Why?"

He smiled at me and said, "Well, it's just that I make a rather nice jasmine green too. Or Oolong." I blinked at him, visibly startled. "You must miss the taste. It's all over your face."

"Less the tea, more my sister." I heard myself say. I swallowed around my suddenly dry tongue. "Dear sir, are you offering to make me tea?"

Xenophilius nodded easily. "It's like I said, you look like you miss it. I don't see why I wouldn't offer, you know? Why, shouldn't I have?"

I cleared my throat and decided to return to my needle-matchstick-thing in the most energetic way possible. "Well," I said, letting out a small, involuntary cough. "Well. It wouldn't be. Terrible. Do you even know where to get some tea?"

Cheerful as can be, Xenophilius chirped, "Nope! Not a clue!"

I wasn't smiling. I _wasn't._ "I'll show you where the kitchens are later then. Make sure you remind me."

"I will."

"Good."

(Xenophilius rubs at the bruises beneath his eyes. I ask him, "Are you not sleeping well?" He tells me of his roommate, gently and without reproach. He is yawning every five minutes but refuses to say anything bad about his roommate except that said roommate snore-whistles like a steam train. "You should drop spiders into his mouth." I suggest, completely joking.

Xenophilius stares at me. "That's a terribly evil plan." He says.

I say, "Maybe it is… maybe it isn't… all depends on whether or not it works, doesn't it?" He gives me a long sidelong glance and doesn't reply. Naturally, I catch him coaching little spiders into his pockets on our way to Potions.)

.

* * *

.

Three hours later, and I was feeling very comfortable; the tea had warmed me up, and through the open windows came scents of pine and breaths of cool autumn air. I felt like I could close my eyes and find myself in the company of those who loved me and those whom I loved back. It was a comfort that I hadn't known I could find within Hogwarts, which, so far, had only been a place of hurt for me. I felt cared for. Whenever I felt like this all over, I smiled. It was good. It was like listening to the murmur of a spring and not knowing where it came from.

"Is it good?" Xenophilius asked me, somewhere to my right. I couldn't see him because my eyes were closed; I was focusing everything that I had on cherishing the strong tea he had brewed for me. It was not a perfect mimicry of Andromeda's recipe, but it was close enough that I could pretend. I hummed.

"It is very good, Xeno. Thank you."

I could feel him smiling at me. And then: "What about you? Are you alright?" And though he didn't outright say it, we both knew that he was talking about my presently tumultuous relationship with Pandora.

And oddly enough, it doesn't strangle me to reply. I clung to this rare feeling of unity and replied, "I'm not so quite as right as I thought. But I'm all right, really."

"Good." Hummed Xenophilius, sipping from his tea. His swallow was loud in my ears, though the House Elves around us were a constant busy buzz in the air. "That's good."

I drank my tea and _forgot._

.

* * *

.

I saw Acheron Carrow for the first time in months in the hall. He was sending spells in the direction of a vaguely familiar mouse-looking boy, a look of piggish concentration on his face. Flanking him were Selwyn and Gibbon; two more people I didn't like. All three of them created a cesspool of boys I wanted to go out of my way to avoid. Actually, that's precisely what I planned to do. Turn around and walk away. Unfortunately, while I was busy seeing Acheron, he was busy wrapping up with his antics and ended up seeing me. Which was… less nice, to say the least.

(I'll skim past the details. You… really don't want to know what he said to me.)

Needless to say, after that encounter, there was steam coming out of my ears when I stomped into the library.

"You look ill." The uncommonly perceptive Xenophilius said to me in greeting, not at all put off by the aura of 'fuck off' surrounding me. I scowled at him: not because he had said something mean to me, but because I was watching Pandora for a reaction, and she didn't move a fraction of an inch. Fine then, I heard myself think. If she wants to drag this on, then let her. "Did something happen?"

I took out some beginner level Herbology books and placed them between Xenophilius and I. "I'm fine. I just encountered a couple of people I'm not overly fond of."

"Have I seen them before?"

"I hope not." I snorted, opening a book to a dog-eared page. "They aren't nice people."

"Oh. Your old Slytherin friends?"

I nodded. "Was it Acheron?" Said Pandora, very, very suddenly. I jumped at the sound of her voice. She jumped when I looked at her and then avoided my eyes. I was suddenly annoyed again. She couldn't even look at me?

"Yes." I answered. There was something to the tone of my voice that had a tiny frown line appearing on Pandora's face. The shame hit me instantly, and I turned away from her. "He's my fiancée." I said to Xenophilius, who was glancing between me and Pandora in confusion. "What?" I snapped.

"Nothing." Xenophilius said, blinking. "How is he your fiancée?"

"Pureblood arranged marriage."

"Aren't you two friends? You're supposed to be married."

"I didn't meet him for years after I found out we were betrothed."

"Oh… that's… sad."

It was Pandora who replied: "Sad? It's the way things are. Marrying the person you love is a novelty for families like ours; if you're lucky, you'll grow to love them, but that's for after the wedding."

Xenophilius looked displeased. "I don't like the sound of it. It sounds — _painful._ "

"Father tells me that love is painful." Confessed Pandora, looking slightly surprised that she'd just said that. "He and Mum are definitely fond of each other but it took a lot of trouble for them to reach that point. The hurt is to be expected, he tells me. If it hurts, it's real."

The displeasure on Xenophilius' face someone _increases._ "Your father's a pillock then, if he really thinks that. Love doesn't _hurt._ Loneliness hurts. Jealousy hurts. Being rejected hurts. I think he may be getting those things confused for love, because _those_ are the things that hurt. Love covers all of that up and makes you feel good again. Love is the only thing in the world that _doesn't_ hurt."

Pandora looked a mix between offended, enchanted, and confused. Xenophilius quietened down quickly, face pink. It was obvious he was ashamed of his outburst. I thought he was going to apologize, but his thin lips remained stubbornly pressed together. Pandora cleared her throat and shifted in her seat.

Sometimes I forgot that Xenophilius was an orphan. Often times, Xenophilius reminded me in the most heart breaking way possible.

I twisted the book to face him and, in a softer voice than I thought myself capable of, confided: "For what it's worth, Xeno… I agree with you."

To say Xenophilius was surprised was an understatement. His face returned to its normal colour, but the smile he sends me is the warmest one I've ever received from him. He adjusts his grip on his quill and parchment and dips his head, hand prepared to scribble notes. "I hope you don't end up marrying your fiancée, Callidora."

I chuckled at that, enchanted at the idea against my will. Oh, how I wished such a thing could be possible.

But it wasn't.

I tapped the book and said, "Eyes down, Lovegood."

.

* * *

.

One day, I was probably going to have to confront the idea that Xenophilius was kind of a great person.

Not any time soon, though. Not if I had any say in it,

.

* * *

.

When I stumbled into the Great Hall for breakfast (late, as was becoming usual for me), Xenophilius and Pandora were already there. Eliza Finch, too, which had me mentally stalling for a bit, but she didn't appear to be talking with them so much as she was simply… occupying a space that belonged to me. There wasn't a space next to Pandora.

She's eleven, I told myself fiercely, Get over yourself.

(I did not get over myself.)

I sat across from Xenophilius and stoically grabbed a piece of toast, stretching across the table to snatch up the marmalade. The blond boy looked up from his book and smiled at me with his eyes. "Good morning, Callidora. Did you sleep well?"

I hadn't. "Fine." I said, voice carefully not-snappy. I took in a sharp breath through my teeth, grabbed a half-cooked egg, and hacked off the top. "How about you, Xeno?"

"Very well. I talked with my roommate like you suggested. You were right: he doesn't like spiders at all."

I paused in my shredding of my toast. "… You didn't really drop spiders into his mouth… did you, Xeno?" I was suddenly not very sure of myself.

"No, of course not." Xenophilius denied, looking offended at the idea of it. "I wouldn't touch those creatures if you paid me real pounds to do so." I saw in my peripheral the way Pandora's eyebrows furrowed. I opened my mouth, but Xenophilius beat me. "It's muggle currency. Pounds."

"Oh." was the first thing Pandora had said all morning. "Nice."

My lips pinched. I kept my eyes on Xenophilius. "Does your roommate know that?"

"… Now that you mention it, I don't think he does." Xenophilius' eyes were wide and innocent. "Oh dear. I must have forgotten to mention it."

The tone he was using startled a snort out of me. I dipped my toast into my egg yolk and shook my head. "Never change, Xeno."

Xeno made a little humming noise. I glanced up: his face was turned down to his lap. Pandora was glaring at the side of his head. "I don't hear that often." He said, far too softly.

"Children are stupid and petty." I said. _I_ might have winced at the venom in my voice. "You're fantastic and unique. I'll say it as many times as I need to for you to get the clue."

Xenophilius did not reply straight away. "… Right then. Thank you, Callidora." I nodded, sternly, and turned back to my breakfast. We ate in silence—comfortable, for a moment, until either I or Pandora would remember that the other was there and the atmosphere would… thicken, a bit. I could always tell when Pandora remembered we weren't on the best of terms because I could feel when her eyes _weren't_ on me when they usually _were._

The atmosphere was shattered when someone shouted, "Post is here!"

No sooner than they had spoken, the sounds of wings flapping became apparent to the rest of the hall. Pandora straightened up in her seat immediately, eyes searching the owls for something. I kept my head down, mechanically dipping the toast into the yolk and bringing it to my mouth. Chewing and swallowing was suddenly very difficult. I kept my attention fixed on my breakfast.

I couldn't resist my eyes flicking up at the sound of a letter landing. Eliza Finch and Pandora caught their letters. I looked down just as Pandora tore into hers. I wondered who was writing. Was it her mother again? I think I'd prefer if it were _Hesper_ if it meant that it wasn't her wretched older brother. All around us, letters were landing in front of students, met with enthusiastic cries and happy little giggles.

My head looked up on its own accord. My eyes search across the hall and found Sirius' dark head. He had his arm thrown around James and Remus' shoulders, but he was talking to a boy who I could only see the back of. When he felt my eyes on him, he peered around the hall suspiciously until he found me. He looked surprised. Then he waggled his eyebrows at me and winked.

I rolled my eyes and looked back down at my breakfast. I really didn't know what I was expecting from him.

I couldn't resist looking again, however. He wasn't talking when I found him again: he was staring at an owl entering the hall with a carefully blank expression that had my heart racing. I felt justified in the bad feeling my gut had been nurturing all day. My eyes snapped up. My stomach dropped when I saw the all-too-familiar great grey owl swoop into the room.

It landed with a clack in front of me.

I didn't even think I had blood pumping through my body at that point. It was all dread. I felt sick. "Dorado?" I whispered, gently accepting the letter. I let him have a few pieces of bacon. Dorado nipped my fingers affectionately, hooting twice, and then took off out of the hall, leaving me with the letter.

I stared at it. I didn't want to open it at all.

I looked up.

Sirius was staring at me this time, scowl firm on his face. I knew then, with _unshakeable_ certainty, that if I made _any_ indication _at all_ of wanting to leave, he would follow me straight out. He wouldn't hesitate. Not for anything.

That, more than anything, gave me the courage to break the wax without budging from my seat.

In familiar slanted horribly gaudy purple ink was my name. No, not _that_ one. The only name that ever really mattered to me. _Dora,_ said the handwriting. My heart stuttered. The letter was short but I knew, just from reading my name, that it was not intended to be a slight, a dagger to slip between my ribs. All from that one word, I had gained all that I needed to know upon opening: I was not being attacked.

I was reassured. I read eagerly.

 _My dearest sister Dora,_

 _I have loved you since the beginning and I will love you until the end, no matter the colour of your tie, my sister. Always and forever._

 _Love,  
your favourite older sister,  
Andy_

I dropped the letter and covered my face, feeling my shoulders trembling. My smile was tearing at my cheeks. My eyes were burning: I could have cried, I was so happy. With a jolt, I realized that my hands were wet, and that I actually _was_ crying. Not in public, I told myself sternly, and reigned in the tears until all that was left was a thunderous buzzing throughout my entire body.

"Cal, are you okay?" Pandora was asking. There was a thump sound. Xenophilius yelped. "Xeno, lean over and grab the letter! You have longer arms than me, you can reach!"

"I'm afraid my arms are too short for that, Pandora."

" _Do something, at least!_ Cal, what happened, what does it say? Is it your mother? Your father? Is — did Bellatrix write you?"

I couldn't answer her. I was vibrating with joy. I wanted to climb on top of the table and wave the letter like a trophy. I wanted to throw my head back and laugh with all that I was worth. I wanted to Floo back to the house and force Andromeda to lay down and hug me for hours. I wanted to photograph the letter and wrap it in a muggle bow to send to my mother.

I couldn't put it into words.

(I was thinking of the warmth of Andy's hugs; surrounding me, grounding me, tethering me to my body. There was no room for anything else.)

I was reminded, in my memories of Andromeda, of my cousin; of Regulus. Inexplicably, I wanted to call Sirius over, look him in the eyes, and promise him that Regulus would forgive him too. I wanted to not be lying when I said it.

(I was overflowing with joy and I wanted to ruin it by inviting Sirius over to allow him time to grieve? Later, I told myself. Later. Live in this moment first. I didn't get enough of these moments in the first place, after all. I needed to remind myself how to experience them before I fell out of practice.)

Pandora was saying, "Cal, are you okay?" and, selfishly, all thoughts of Sirius were harshly packed away in her favour. I looked at her without an ounce of shame for the happiness painted over my face, of the public show of my emotions, of the way my body was still trembling and my eyes were burning, and I felt relief in that, with this, I would not have to lie to her.

I said, "I'm perfect, Pan. I'm—this is the happiest I've ever been." Her eyes widened and I watched as all the colour that had rushed out of her face returned with a vengeance. Her cheeks were pink as the peaches I had dreamed of, and precisely as unattainable.

I handed her the letter. "Read it."

Pandora hesitated.

"I want you to."

She took the letter.

Her eyes were not moving from my face. I thought the sight of me grinning so fiercely might have been odd to her, so I toned it down as much as I was able to. Pandora blinked as if she'd been stunned and looked down at the letter, subconsciously twisting her body to allow Xenophilius to peer over and read as well. As soon as she read the first line, Pandora presented her teeth in a smile.

Xenophilius looked quietly pleased. "It is always nice to have family." He said, far too softly. "Is Andy your Andromeda?"

"Yes," I answered, revelling in the pronoun. _Your Andromeda. Your sister. Yours._ "My Andy."

Pandora sounded like she was speaking from her chest when she whispered, "Cal, I am _so happy_ for you." There was a great sunburst of affection behind my ribcage at the sight of actual tears gathering in Pandora's eyes. Pandora sniffed. "Always did like Andromeda better than your other sisters."

"You liked Cissy the most because of her hair."

"I was lying. Andromeda gave me bikkies. Always knew she was a good sort."

"Yeah," I clenched my hands in my lap and ignored everything that was going so horribly in my life. I felt that I could manage it, too, in that moment. Pandora was smiling at me, Xenophilius' eyes were warm, and I had the support of Andromeda and Sirius. With those facts fresh in my mind, I was prepared for anything. "Merlin, Pan. Me too."

.

* * *

.

I would not ruin this shining moment with thoughts of Cissy, but know that I had felt her eyes on me the entire time since Dorado delivered the letter.

(I look up from my breakfast and stare to the Slytherin table. Cissy meets my eyes deliberately, coolly, and takes a sip from her goblet—I can so easily imagine Mother there, gazing at me apathetically from above her wine glass, that it is only the overwhelming thoughts of love for Andy that keep me from flinching. She holds me in her gaze for exactly five seconds: she places her goblet down and turns away to talk to the pretty dark-skinned girl beside her.)

((She doesn't look again, not that morning, not that day, and not for weeks on weeks on weeks afterwards.))

Pandora and I started talking again as if we had never stopped. Eleven year old girls weren't good at keeping up fights with their best friends, turns out, even though we were good at fighting while we _were_ fighting. Not anymore, though. I'm glad for that.

(I missed her. I had sat in her company for days and I had stared her in the face and I had missed her as if she were continents—galaxies—time streams—away from me.)

Xenophilius continues to want lessons on Herbology from me. I am finding myself growing fonder of him with each passing day, truthfully. It is hard not to be endeared by him and by the second month of his otherworldly comments, I only feel fond of them. He becomes a great friend quickly. I'm not expecting it and neither is Pandora—but she doesn't resist it. I think there's something prophetic about that. Of course she wouldn't mind, he's to be her doting husband, is he not? Why wouldn't he like her, and she him?

Still, it takes them a while to grow to be close friends. It's kind of weird but at first, they were only friends with each other because they were friends with me. Now they have their own inside jokes. I watched them have an entire conversation with their eyes and eyebrows. Xenophilius was uncommonly perceptive enough that it worked for him, and Pandora was just straight up good at reading body language. Most of their conversations with each other aren't even verbal.

No, I'm not jealous. Why would I be?

They're meant to be. I've really got no right to be bitter about anything—and I'm _not_ bitter. _I'm not._

… Stop looking at me like that.

Things...

Things are fine.

 _(por favour, no arruinar este.)_

.

...

.

 **"** _Always be kinder than you feel._ **"**

.

...

 **.**

 **…**

 **.**

...

Authors Note:

The ending is great bc you're like 'who even is callidora bitter to lose the companionship of' it's a mystery even she doesn't know

I am _so severely dissatisfied with this chapter you don't even know._ Pandora's a bit cynical about marriage bc of her parents. Xenophilius is the orphan kid that has to hold on tight to his values of love least he wants to sink into melancholy and lose all hope lol.

GUEST REVIEWS:

Guest: I accept your proposal and want you to consider a Voltron themed wedding, if you're amiable. I can be Lance, you can be Keith, the priest can be Coran, and our bridesmaids/groomsmen can be Hunk, Pidge, Allura, and Shiro. ...Or a Harry Potter one if you want to be traditional. Honestly, I'm game for anything once.


	6. my mind stretched out on the canopy

**Title:** fish hooks in the corners of their mouths

 **Summary:** "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]

 **Rating:** Tentative T

 **Dedication:** To the usual heroes: **billy** , **bluejanes** , and **enbi**!

 **Disclaimer:** Disclaimed

 **Warnings:** I'm emo so there's a lot of depression in this chapter just fyi bc it might get too real at one point idk

.

* * *

07.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _my mind stretched out on the canopy_

* * *

.

I am reminded of my mental shortcomings a month or two (who knows? Time becomes relative when you're lost inside your head) after Andy's letter. My first clue that I was getting bad again was the day Pandora drew open my curtains to wake me up and saw me staring blankly at the canopy of my bed.

("Oh," She had said, smiling. "You're already awake. Saves me the trouble."

Inhalation. Exhalation. Inhalation. "I've been awake for hours."

"And you haven't moved yet?"

Exhalation.

"No. I haven't.")

And then every aspect of school became tedious. I would show up late for Transfiguration ("Late again, Miss Black?", "Yes m'am."), take my seat beside Alice, and blink, and suddenly the class was over and I would look down and see that my goblet had outfitted itself with a beak with no recollection of doing it. I was disconnected. Unexcited. I recognized the feeling.

Dios mío, but did I recognize it.

My days were not days anymore; attention without feeling made it into more of a report, an objective recount of chronological activities. There was no openness or empathy.

Wake up. Shower. Eat breakfast. Smile at Xeno. Smile at Alice. Smile at Pandora. Smile, smile, smile. Flick your wrist and point your wand. Eat again. Smile again. Try to remember where your fingers are and where your arms are and that you knees aren't going to collapse just because you suddenly can't feel them. School again. People again: smile, smile, smile. The tart is like ash in your mouth. Sink into your bed sheets: lay there in the darkness and try not to lose yourself in it. You need to get up tomorrow. You need to get up tomorrow. You need to get up tomorrow.

(Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.)

There was an emptiness focused in my gut. It was an indifference that hurt. By month two (three? Was it even months or was it weeks or was it minutes turned hours turned days? Minutes and hours shared the same heartbeat.) it began to sting when I tried to smile. I was exhausted, energy sucked out of me like I had been doing anything particularly _rough,_ which I hadn't, and it was — nothing. It was a whole lot of nothing.

It sucked. I didn't want to _do_ … _anything._ I wanted to lay in my bed and stare at the canopy of my four-post bed with a cat on my chest and breathe.

I could not do that. I had to get up every morning and brush my hair and tie my tie (and then tie Pandora's tie) and try not to fail my classes. I continued. Slowly, I continued. At that point, it wasn't about so much as living _with_ myself as it was living _despite_ myself.

I exchanged letters with Andy every week. I wound my arm with Pandora's and sat in her company. I choked down tea with Xenophilius on the top of the astronomy tower. I listened as Alice ranted about the excessive amount of ice cream she consumed growing up and how she could no longer eat it without bringing back up her breakfast. I let Sirius throw his arm around my shoulders and James call me 'Cal' and Remus hesitate before speaking and Peter stutter on every second word. I continued, I continued, I continued.

I needed solitude. I needed space. I needed air. I needed a growling empty house round me; my legs pounding across the polished dark wood; and sleep; and shattered porcelain. I wanted to destroy something. I wanted to cradle a gentle thing to my chest and protect it from harm.

I didn't know myself.

Pandora held me. "Are you okay?" She asked me. She had asked me this question many times, with increasing frequency the longer I exist in this state of am-I-or-aren't-I.

I opened my mouth. I want to tell her what is happening with me but I can't because I don't know (Lie. Yes I do. Too late to take it back now). _I'm breaking, and I need someone to hold me together._ No sound comes out. At least my subconscious knew not to burden Pandora with this.

"Fine."

"Are you sure?" She asked again. It sounded like, _You're lying but I don't know if I want the truth yet._

"Yeah, I'm sure. Are _you_ okay?"

"Of course." She said. "You know you can talk to me. You can tell me if something is wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," I told her. "Where's Xeno?"

"Working on his Astronomy project with Evans."

"I still haven't met her. Are we sure she's real?"

"She sits with me during Flying Lessons so I'd say she is." My attempts at distracting her are losing their capabilities, if they ever had any such things in the first place. "I feel like something's… wrong. Are you sad?"

"Sad? I mean, I guess I am."

"About what? Narcissa?"

"Mmm, maybe."

"Forget about her. She isn't worth it."

Lie.

"She's my sister, Pan."

"She hasn't talked to you in half a year, Cal. You're better off without someone like that in your life."

I almost slip up and ask her if Tantalus is still writing her. Instead, I asked, "How is your mother?"

"Huh?"

"Your mother. You received a letter from her this morning, right? Is she well?"

"… Yes, of course."

Of course.

"Of course." Because nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong and there is no war brewing in our homes and I am not disgraced and Tantalus is not making his moves on Pandora and nothing is wrong and of course, of course, we are fine and happy. What reason is there not to be?

I am so tired.

.

* * *

.

"It's jasmine green," Xenophilius placed the cup in my hands. I nearly drop it because my fingers weren't responding quick enough and my grip was weak. Xenophilius caught it. He doesn't mention it. "Your favourite."

"Thank you," I said politely, sipping the tea. "Where is Pan?"

"Studying."

"We never hang out anymore." I reflected. "Not all at once."

"Our schedules never match up and the workload is getting... bigger. It's not our fault."

"There are weekends," I don't say. Because weekends are when I go to sleep at 7:30 and wake up in the middle of lunch and go for a nap before dinner and my friend's cannot follow me into my technicoloured dreams. What I do say is: "I miss you. You and Pan and me in the same room at the same time."

"We miss you," Xenophilius replied, ducking his head. He still was not comfortable with affection. "But… school, you know. It's so boring and tiring. I'd rather be doing something else."

"Like what?"

Xenophilius told me, speaking all the way into the sunset, and I listened to the wonder in his voice and felt the stirring of a song in my heart. My tea was ice cold by the time we had finished. I choked it down and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and said, "Thank you, Xeno." For speaking, for telling me of the imagination in your soul, for reminding me of the wonder hidden in the corners of the world that I no longer looked.

Xenophilius pursed his lips. "For what?"

For what indeed.

.

* * *

.

I wake, I wake, I wake, I wake up. Every morning. I keep on waking up.

I am doing well. I am doing well, because every morning, I don't want to exist, and I wake up despite that.

I wake up anyway.

.

* * *

.

"You've been quiet lately. All somber and boring again," Sirius told me one day, all innocence and saccharine sweetness. "Something getting you down?"

"Nothing in particular." I murmured, eyes tracking Narcissa's exit out of the hall.

"Nothing lifting your spirits then?"

"I have my friends."

"Pandora isn't exactly a laugh. Not recently, at least. She's toned down, hasn't she?"

"School." I answered simply. "It takes up a lot of her attention."

"Supposedly, the workload only gets worse the older you get."

"That so?"

"So it is!" Sirius said triumphantly. I didn't respond. He clicked his tongue and nudged me. "What is your _problem?_ You're less exciting than dirt. A piece of driftwood would react better to my charm than you are!"

"Have you ever considered that you are not particularly charming?"

"You haven't been this unamused with me since we were six," Sirius muses, and I am just a bit surprised that he remembers that far back. "Are you sure you and Pandora aren't fighting?"

"I'm sure." I wasn't sure.

"Then what's going on?"

"I don't know."

"Are you, like, sad or something?"

"I don't know."

"That's helpful."

I sighed. "Tell me about it."

.

* * *

.

I put my foot into my left shoe a week later and find that it is full of slime. I can hear him in my head. _Cheer up, Boring Dora!_ I peel off the dirty sock and patter downstairs barefooted. I sit down in front of Magdalene McKinnon and show her my shoe.

"Could you clean this?" I asked, and she laughed at the slime and hit it with a Banishing charm that I couldn't manage. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Cumulonimbus. Mind if I ask after the little marauder who filled your shoes with slime?"

I pinched my lips together. "Just my cousin."

"The other Black? The one in Gryffndor?" I nodded. "That's my little sister's house. Don't suppose they know each other, do you?"

"Wouldn't have the foggiest clue, sorry. Thanks again. For the shoes."

"That's alright. Hey, you come to me anytime you need help with your Divination, okay? I know you're a little too young for that but us McKinnon's—we're quite the hand with the sight."

I smiled. It pulled at my muscles like cracking paper-mâché. "Will do. Have a nice day, McKinnon."

"You too, Cumulonimbus!"

"Please don't call me that."

Magdalene just laughed at me. I didn't mind it that much. I didn't mind many things, really, but the nickname… it wasn't so bad.

Even if she was essentially calling me a dark cloud.

.

* * *

.

I dreamed of a bonfire and chocolate empanadas and abeulita's chilli.

"You've been crying," Pandora observed when I woke (I woke I woke I woke) that morning. She stared at me with open concern. "…Cal—"

"I'm fine," I told her hoarsely, cupping my hands under the running tap and taking a drink. I would have never done such a thing at the start of the year. The thought vaguely amuses me. "Sorry. I'm fine. It's okay."

"What are you apologizing for?" She asked, far too softly. She opened her mouth and I knew what she was going to ask. I prepared myself for it. It doesn't come. Pandora stared at me silently for a moment, at my red eyes and the dried tear tracks, and tugged nervously at her tie.

I washed my face. I showered last night in a fit of boredom for an hour, so I didn't need to take another one that morning. I plastered on the deodorant anyway. Pandora was picky about that sort of thing. I grabbed the comb and intended to drag it through the worst of the knots when it was daintily snatched from my fingers.

Pandora was frowning at me. "Sit." She ordered.

"Where." I said.

She lead me out of the bathroom and to her bed, pointed, and ordered, "Sit."

I sat.

She crawled behind me, twisting the comb in her hand, nervous, nervous, why was she nervous, and grabbed my hair. "Tell me if it hurts." She said, and then began to comb my hair, so gentle and hesitant that I was honestly concerned that she was brushing my hair at all.

I didn't tell her that it hurt. She eventually grew to be more confident; stopped fiddling with my split-ends and started to work on the knots at the top and middle of my hair. There werea few whispered apologies and hidden winces there. Nothing discouraging. I am careful there. It didn't take long, and it barely hurt at all.

It was just me, relinquishing control, and Pandora, being — being Pandora. Pandora sitting there at my back and simply brushing my hair. I enjoyed it, the way I used to enjoy Xenophilius' tea, the way I used to enjoy dessert, the way I used to enjoy things before everything started to taste like boiled cabbage in my mouth.

Pandora combed my hair and I felt delicate; fragile; alive. Human.

(We're going to be late, I told her.

Then we will be late, She replied. Can I braid your hair?

Yes. I said. Yes, yes, of course you can.

I felt her smile at me.)

.

* * *

.

 _(I wake up.)_

.

* * *

.

"If you were stranded on a deserted island without your magic and you could only eat one meal to survive, what would it be?" Alice.

"Salad." Pandora, quicksilver. "It can be anything. Vegetable salad, potato salad, chicken salad: I'll be getting all of my nutrients. From my salads."

"I don't think that's… a proper answer…" Alice, again.

"Ice cream." Xenophilius. "So that a certain Hufflepuff could magically appear to yell at me about it, and then I could use whatever transport she used to get there to get off the island."

"… I hate playing this game with Ravenclaws." Alice, sighing. "What about you, Callidora? Do you have any fancy answers for me?"

Me. "Empanadas. No, hornazos? Either one."

"I've never heard of either of those." Alice.

"I've never seen her _eat_ either of those." Pandora.

"Jaime Reyes prefers cuchifrito's himself," Xenophilius. "Do you know a place that makes good Spanish food? I didn't think the wizarding world had one. This place isn't the most… multi-cultural of places."

"I know a place." I say. I'm not lying. It's just a matter of how to get there. "In Colorado."

"In _America?_ You've been to _America?_ " Alice.

"I thought your vacation home was in Boston." Pandora.

"It is," I say, "and this restaurant is in Colorado."

"Is it good?" Xenophilius.

"It's the best food you'll ever taste."

"What's it called?"

" _Jimenez._ Opened in 1968." I don't say, _My grandfather owns that restaurant._ I don't say, _My grandmother will walk through those doors in four years and raise hell about the substandard hornazos and start a ten-year-long love story that ends with six children and a marriage in the backyard._ I don't say it, but I feel it, and that's probably just as bad as forming the words on my tongue. "You'll never find a better restaurant in the world."

Pandora, humming. "We'll all have to go there someday. All of us, together."

"That'd be nice," Alice, laughing. "If it's as great as Callidora makes it seem."

"It'll be better." Me again, promising.

"I bet it will be." All of them, trusting.

(The dessert does not taste like boiled cabbage that night.)

.

* * *

.

I wake.

I wake I wake I wake I wake.

 _(It gets easier.)_

.

* * *

.

Narcissa passes by my table in the library without a sideways glance. I watch her leave me; there is a talon scratching at me from the inside, an upwards stroke in my abdomen. There is no other way for it to happen. My soul is tired. She feels like another nail in my coffin.

(I'm sick and tired of _dying._ )

Frank Longbottom, who is tutoring me in Transfiguration (or at least, trying to), pointedly shifts his body so that he intercepts my line of sight. Narcissa's fair head disappears behind Frank's square body.

He raises his wand and says, "Like this, see? Twirl your wrist just like this. No, not like that—smoother. Not so jerky. The wand is an extension of your arm, not some unwelcome accessory that you accidentally glued on."

"Glue?" I say, mildly surprised he's heard of such a thing.

Frank grins. "Yeah! It's this cool muggle invention that works like a—no, wait, don't distract me. Come on, focus on this, Black. If you don't get this down you won't even get _pity_ marks from McGonagall and you'll fail. Miserably."

"Miserably?"

" _Wretchedly._ "

Narcissa is gone.

Frank Longbottom, round-faced and talented and loyal, is here.

I Transfigure the bird into a goblet and ask him, "Do you still want to be friends?"

He chokes on his tongue. I take it as a yes.

(He smiles with his entire being behind it. He has very straight teeth, just like Xeno. I am noticing things; human things. I am breathing again.)

.

* * *

.

I tie Pandora's tie. I savour Xenophilius' tea on my tongue. I no longer tense when Alice throws her arms around me. I sleep at 10pm and wake at 8am the next morning and spend my weekends with Pandora and Xenophilius and Alice. I am skin and bone and sweat and nerves. I am no collection of metaphors or a poetic sentence with life breathed into it; I am a girl.

I am a girl and I am good again.

.

* * *

.

It was to be expected. Hindsight was twenty-twenty, after all. So when the silence settled over the group and the laughter in Sirius' voice died out as he caught onto the judgement, James could only think, disappointed but unsurprised, _We should have expected this._

But they hadn't. Truthfully, James didn't want to ever expect a friend of his to say something like Sirius did.

But it had happened.

It had happened, and James was a conflicting mess of 'He did _not_ ' and 'What did I think was going to happen?'

Sirius looked lost in the corridor. Remus and Peter had taken a few steps back from him, physically distancing themselves from his words. Remus looked furious in a cold way that James hoped he would never witness again. Peter was fidgeting with his hands, distinctly uncomfortable, and half hiding behind Remus. James wouldn't judge them. Sometime during the joke, he had apparently distanced himself as well.

Sirius looked—

It didn't matter.

'What?' He swivelled his head around. 'What happened? Did I say something?'

Remus' throat worked. No sound came out. James empathised.

'Sirius…' surprisingly, it was Peter who spoke, voice hoarse and choked. 'Mate… you don't mean that, do you?'

'Mean what?' Said Sirius, oblivious. 'What's your problem anyway? You guys are looking at me like I'm—' He paused. 'Doesn't matter. It's freaky though, you know? Could you cut it out?'

The worst part might not have been what he was saying. It might have been that he had _no clue_ what he'd done _wrong_.

James ran his fingers through his hair and shuffled his feet. He didn't know how to deal with this situation at all. Mostly, he was concerned for Remus, who looked reclusive and cold and imposing, a solitary glaring light shined directly into Sirius' eyes. Kind of like the moon, all big and looming and lonely.

He wanted to say something. He did, swear on his mum's life, but it was just—

Just—

He could _hear_ the word echoing in between his ears. Heard the word in _Sirius'_ voice.

That word was never supposed to come out of Sirius' mouth. His _best mate_. It was — it was _wrong._ It wasn't _Sirius._ Cause yeah, he could be a pillock, a snob with his pointy nose turned up, but he had his heart in the right place and James' mum raised a good kid with a good eye for good people, and Sirius was one of the _best_ people.

So yeah, James didn't know what to say. So what. The rug had just been pulled out from under him, it was perfectly natural for him to scramble for words.

Sirius straightened up from his slouch and dug his hands into his pockets, shoulders tense. 'What? What did I say?'

'You don't even know.' Remus said flatly, clicking his tongue on his teeth. 'Of course you don't.'

Sirius looked a bit insulted at that. 'What's _that_ supposed to mean?'

Remus' lips thinned. He turned his face away. ' _Nothing,_ ' and then he said nothing, responding to none of Sirius' prompts.

Sirius shifted in his robes like he was uncomfortable in them, which James knew couldn't be true, because they were specifically tailored for him and Sirius hadn't grown an inch sideways or vertically since the day he sat next to James on the train. The robes fit him like a second skin. It was impossible to be uncomfortable in them.

(Probably just like it was impossible for James' best mate to ever say that — that — that _word._ )

Shoes clacked against stone. Sirius looked glad for the possible intrusion and whipped his head around to see who was approaching. James thought he saw Sirius lighten up at their visitor. 'Cal!' He called, sounding relieved. 'Over here!'

Sirius' cousin, Callidora Black III, stopped walking immediately at the sound of his voice. Her robes had a Ravenclaw crest sewn in the breast, proud and blue. Callidora was alright by James' terms, if not a bit too melancholic for his tastes. Sirius seemed to like her well enough though, so Remus and Peter tried to be nice to her. Not that Callidora was particularly receptive to kindness. She responded better to pushing and rubbish jokes — of which neither Remus nor Peter had the courage to bombard her with.

James sent a glance at his more… shy friends (if you could call them that) and could see plain as day that they were uncomfortable with the idea of another Black in their company. Especially considering what their resident pet Black had done.

But Callidora was already sweeping her way over to them, tucking her paperback book away into her satchel. She looked tired, thought James, before mentally snorting because Callidora always looked tired. It was her thing, like Peter's puns and Remus' folded socks and James' messy hair and Sirius' cocky grin.

'Pettigrew. Lupin. James.' Callidora greeted them, voice soft but loud enough that they could all pick up what she was saying without barely straining their ears to hear her. 'Siri.'

'I was telling the lads this joke—well, more of what I said in Charms today, but it was funny enough—but _they_ supposedly didn't find it much funny and I'm a bit desperate here. So I need you to listen at it and then laugh so I can sleep easy tonight.'

Remus reared himself up to say something. Before he could, Callidora bobbed her head and, suspicious, answered, 'Alright. Go on then. Tell me what happened in Charms.'

Sirius launched into the recount with just as much enthusiasm as he had the first time. The longer he went on, the more of James' muscle groups were locking up and becoming immovable. He felt like he could bare his teeth and snap at Sirius like some sort of rabid werewolf. Unsurprisingly, James wasn't much fond of these feelings, especially directed at his best mate.

But—

But—

His mum raised him _right._

(So why hadn't _Sirius' mother_ done the _same?_ )

He'd been taught to get angry when he heard that word. That was what his dad had told him. _This is a bad word. Don't accept it. Ever._ So James was here, not accepting it, except that also meant that he wasn't accept his best mate, but then James didn't _want_ a best mate who thought that word was _okay_ and, look.

Look.

This was a wee bit of a stressful situation.

James didn't know what he would do if Sirius' cousin shared his sense of humour.

That was all he was going to say on the subject.

James tuned into the conversation at just the right time. Sirius was going on to say, '…and so, the Mudblood goes. Black, you can't just — '

Surprisingly, all four of them winced. The fourth person being _Callidora_ , which — okay, James had _hoped_ , but it was still _shocking._ And _disappointing._

(Why her? Why did she know better while Sirius didn't? How was that fair?)

Sirius stopped, just about choking on his tongue. His face got all crumpled and sour and when he spat the word, " _What,_ " James thought for a second that he sounded an awful lot like his pretty blonde-cousin in the Slytherin house.

Which was… unsettling.

And a bit insulting.

'Muggleborn.' Callidora interrupted, voice softer than James had ever heard it. The clarity of her voice stopped Sirius right in his tracks. The anger disappeared. He stared at her vacantly. Callidora cleared her throat. 'Muggleborn, Siri, not Mudblood.'

Sirius blinked at his cousin in confusion. For a moment, he didn't seem to understand what she was saying at all, like she was speaking an entirely different language from the rest of them, but he wasn't left in the dark for long. After a beat of tense silence, comprehension crashed into his gaze all at once. His eyes widened — _Surprised_ , thought James, darkly, _How could he be_ _surprised_ — and flickered over the frozen faces of his friends.

Sirius no longer looked comfortable in his skin; the self-assurance that dogged his everyday demeanour had abandoned him. Suddenly, he looked very young and very small in his well-tailored robes, unsure of his place or himself. James thought he saw Sirius shift — just a little bit. It put him closer to Callidora and further away from Peter's uncomfortable expression and Remus' cold one. Rallying himself.

'I—' Sirius sniffed, eyes falling to the floor. 'Right. Of course. Sorry, sorry, I… forgot.'

'You forgot?' Echoed Remus flatly. His face was still frozen in an expression of distaste. 'Then all is forgiven, I suppose, since all you did was forget that muggleborn witches and wizards are people. No harm done.'

Ouch. Even James had to flinch at that one, though he had to agree with Remus.

'…Course, I — of course. You're right. I shouldn't have — ' Sirius stopped. He looked completely lost. James felt a pang of sympathy for him, a quick hummingbird flutter in his stomach. Sirius didn't know any better, that was all. Everyone knew how nasty the Black family was, and Sirius was the heir of the house, so of course he didn't know what he was saying.

And yet, the feeling of betrayal remained. James couldn't help it.

It felt like he didn't know Sirius at all.

Callidora shifted enough so that her shoulder was brushing against her cousin's. It was an act of comfort, James could see, but also something else: Sirius sent Callidora a chastised glance as if the contact meant more than one thing between them. Side-by-side, James was struck by their resemblance. They shared in their thick hair, their unblemished pale skin, their cobalt-eyes. They could have been siblings.

Remus twitched. Sirius sighed. 'I'm sorry, Remus. Petey. _I am_.'

Remus didn't reply. Peter might as well have been another country away from how much attention he was paying them.

James ran his fingers through his hair. This was a _mess_. He had a bad feeling that this was going to become a common point of contention for his motley group of friends. The thought of it in the long-run was tiring, so James stopped thinking about the future and focused on the present. The present, at least, had a repentant Sirius Black. They could work with that.

'It's alright mate. We know you're trying.' He said. His best friend's eyes physically lit up. Cautiously, that was. 100% reassurance was probably hard to believe with a looming Remus Lupin in the background. James offered up a smile. 'If it's anyone's fault, it's your family's.'

There was a hesitant pause.

James nudged his friends.

Remus sighed, a short, tightly-strung sigh, but a surrender nonetheless.

The hope became significantly less cautious at that. Sirius tried on a grin. It fell a little short but James appreciated the effort. He suspected that that was all he could do at this point. 'Thanks, James. And — and I really am sorry. Seriously.'

There was a pause. Remus and Peter had relaxed but it didn't look like Sirius was entirely forgiven yet. Truthfully, James hadn't forgiven him either, but he meant what he said — it wasn't all Sirius' fault. It was his family's. As his friends, James, Remus and Peter would have to re-educate him on what it meant to be a, like, genuine human being. There would be bumps in the road but James reckoned they'd come out of it all right. Besides, it wasn't fun if there wasn't contention. In James' opinion, the only way you could know if something was worth anything was based upon the amount of opposition you got.

'Of course you're serious,' Said James, running his fingers through his hair. 'What else are you gonna be?'

Sirius snorted, something in his posture relaxing. 'Ha ha. That'll never get old.' He said, sounding much like he already considered the joke to be fossilised. Sirius's eyes flickered anxiously towards Peter and Remus. He hesitated, just for a bit, and then leaned into Callidora's shoulder. She leaned back without missing a beat.

(James reckoned he wouldn't much mind having a cousin his age.)

'Now that that's over and done with,' James said grandly, facing Callidora. He grinned his most obnoxious grin at her and was delighted to receive a half-hearted eye roll on response. 'Cal, well, if it isn't my _favourite_ Black! How are you? Murdered any babies recently? Torn apart innocent families? How many people have you made cry today?'

'None that I'm aware of, but it's only eleven in the morning. We have time.' She said flatly, a dry smile on her lips.

'Where's Pandora?' Asked Sirius, twisting his head around as if expecting Callidora's blonde shadow to pop out from around the corner. 'I thought you two were Permanently Stuck at the hip.'

'If you must know, she's with Xeno.' Callidora said, scratching her nose. 'They're studying in the library. I was about to meet them.'

Remus tilted his head. 'The library's that way,' he pointed in the direction Callidora had come from.

She smiled blandly. 'I have a terrible sense of direction,'

'You're a Ravenclaw,' James blurted, 'How could you not know where the library is?'

She didn't even bother with an excuse. She just shrugged again.

Sirius blinked. 'Wait, who's Xeno?'

'A friend.'

'… A _friend,'_ repeated Sirius, sounding disbelieving.'Well, _I've_ never met him.'

Callidora looked amused — or as amused as she _could_ be. James didn't think he'd ever seen her face do anything more than lofty, exasperated, or I-would-laugh-at-you-plebeians-if-I-wouldn't-feel-guilty-about-reminding-you-of-your-inferiority.

Honestly, James was just glad the tension was settling down.

'Since when have you ever needed to be introduced to my friends?'

'Since _shut up that's why_ ,' Sirius sniffed and pushed her away from him, standing up and straightening out his robes. Callidora was possibly one of the tiniest humans James had ever met, and she came up to Sirius' nose. Their lacklustre height was probably a consequence of that inbreeding thing. It was a sadder sight than Sirius' double-jointed thumb at least. 'Who is Xeno? Is he a boy? Is he Pandora's new boyfriend or something?'

Callidora's face twitched.

Sirius' eyes widened.

' _No way._ '

'Shut up,' she snapped instantly, brushing her hair from her face. Like Sirius, Callidora had thick, wavy hair. Unlike Sirius, Callidora's hair did not fall artfully around her face: it was more like James' in that it refused to cooperate and arranged itself in the most unflattering way possible if it wasn't being strangled with hair product. She was constantly tucking her hair behind her ear or redoing her pony tail so she could actually see in front of her when she was walking. It not-so-privately amused James, honestly. She'd do better just to chop it all off, like he'd done.

'Pandora has a _boyfriend?_ '

'No!'

'Is that why you're being so — '

'I'm not being anything!'

' _Things are making sense all of a sudden_ — '

'You're so — they aren't dating!'

' _Yet!_ They aren't dating _yet._ ' Callidora scowled at Sirius fiercely, reminding James sharply of his own mother. It didn't have any effect of her cousin. 'I can't believe you're _jealous._ '

Callidora scratched at her nose, froze, and then threw her hands into her pockets. 'I'm _not_ jealous and they're not _dating._ ' She huffed. 'Merlin, talking to you is physically painful, Siri. It's not worth it at all.'

Remus snorted. 'She's got a point.' Peter nudged Remus and mumbled something. Remus' keen little ears picked up on it easily, though it was barely even a murmur to James. 'Oi, Pete, that isn't nice.'

'What'd he say?' Sirius pushed, already pouting. 'Petey, what was that? Speak up, lad!'

'More like squeak up,' James snorted.

Sirius sent him a shining grin and shifted away from Callidora so that he could reach out and push James' shoulder. 'Be fair, be fair. Pete'll learn eventually. Won't you, Pete?' Peter smiled hesitantly and bobbed his head up and down. James sent a flickering glance at Callidora and saw her staring at Peter with an odd intensity that he knew not to expect from her. She caught him looking and smoothed out her face instantly, raising her eyebrow. James raised his back. Then waggled them for good luck. She smiled like quicksilver then turned away from him completely.

'He said,' Remus was saying, snagging James' focus once again, 'that your name is more _ironic_ than anything, since you couldn't attend your own mother's funeral without giggling.'

'He did not!'

'He did so, I heard it with my own ears!'

'Peter, say it isn't so!' Sirius whirled around to face Peter, hand on heart. 'Is it so easy for you to betray me?'

Peter didn't even think. 'Yup,' he said dryly, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. 'You agree don't you, James?'

'Bout what?' James blinked. 'Sorry, wazzat? Wasn't listening properly.'

Remus smirked. 'We were just saying that Sirius didn't have a responsible bone in his body—'

'Hey!' came Sirius' playfully outraged protest, largely ignored.

'That so? I'll have to agree with you lads there then. Sorry, Sirius. You know how it is.'

'To be ambushed by treachery? Well I do _now._ Do me a favour, boys? Next time you need something, don't come running to me! I wouldn't help you for all the raspberry tarts in the world!'

'No,' Peter mumbled, 'but you'd probably do it for the thrill that comes with doing a good thing without expecting reward for it, wouldn't you mate?'

It's weak.

It's weak and not even funny in the slightest but the banter is easy, flowing, relaxing, so James isn't surprised when all of them explode into laughter like Peter's just the funniest bloke in the world. It's expected, almost, and there is that hummingbird flutter in his chest against when he sees Sirius brace himself on Remus as he's bent over with the force of his laughter. Peter was holding his own stomach as he laughed, more like little wheezes and squeaks than the belly-roaring that was coming out of James, and Remus was covering his mouth as a last ditch effort of holding some part of himself back although he's laughing just as hysterically as Sirius, and its—

It's—

 _Good_ , thought James, breathless, watching his best mate's in the world laugh themselves into tears. _Good. Things are as it should be._

He threw his arm around Peter's shoulders, brought the little guy into his side, and clapped Sirius' shoulder with his free hand. 'Good show, Pete,' He said, giving them all that final push. _Forget, forget, forget._ The bad things could come later. They would deal with it after. Now was the time for laughter. 'All those in favour for dubbing Sirius the group clown say 'aye!''

'Aye!' came the immediate response from everyone present, sans Callidora.

'Wankers.' Sirius snorted, shrugging off James' hand. 'See if I ever do anything for you lot again.'

'Because _you're_ the height of human competence.' Callidora said drolly, stepping away. 'If all you four are going to do is giggle about Sirius' responsibility then I'll just leave.'

'Right-o.' Sirius said breezily, 'Have fun with Pandora and her new boyfriend!'

'Hilarious.' She replied, dry as a bone, and sounding so much like Sirius that James jumped a little. Callidora sent all four of them a narrow glance. 'Knowing my unfortunate luck, I will be seeing you lot later. Do take care not to traumatize anyone. It _will_ back fire and I've no desire to clean up your messes, Siri.'

Sirius maturely stuck his tongue out at his cousin. His cousin raised her eyebrows at him, a stab of amusement coming across her face, before she carefully and meticulously tucked the emotion away. She sent them all a bland smile, turning and walking away in a swath of flowing black fabric.

The gang watched her go, the amusement on their faces still alive if not dampened. As she walked away, Remus wondered: 'Do you think she knows that the slime in her shoes was you, Sirius?'

Funny. James had been wondering the same thing. He turned to their friend. Sirius snorted and waved his hand in front of his nose. 'There's no way. We're fine. She doesn't have a clue.'

'You sure?'

'Surer than death.' Sirius said, bobbing his head up and down. 'She's completely clueless, lads. Nothing to worry about at all.'

.

* * *

.

Sirius woke up the dorm screaming not a week later to _spiders_ in his _bed_. As Peter gently escorted each and every spider out their now open window, Remus crossed his arms and stared a still-shivering Sirius down. ' _Told_ you she knew about the slime.'

' _Bugger off,_ Lupin!'

'Spiders. _Merlin,_ that's creepy.' James whispered, deeply disturbed. ' _Where did she get them._ '

'I don't think you want to know,' Said Peter, juggling a fast arachnid with his hands, keeping it in his palm as he put it outside. 'Some of these spiders aren't even native to Scotland. She might have had to order them.'

'With, like, an owl?'

'Yes, Remus. With, like, an owl.'

Sirius blinked. His face and bare arms were scrubbed raw, so he looked a bit like a ripe tomato with hair, dripping in the middle of their dorm. He shivered with his entire body and rubbed his hands down his face. 'I hate her,' he groaned, 'She's such a freak,'

'She's _your_ cousin.'

' _Shut up, Lupin!_ '

Remus snickered into his hands. James found himself following along not too long after. Two minutes later and Sirius was the only one in the dorm not laughing, but that was okay. His mates were laughing enough for him. He didn't have to do a thing.

.

* * *

.

The school year ended uneventfully. And lonely. But it ended, so that was a good thing. ('Uneventful and Lonely' was going to become the title of my autobiography at this point.)

I passed the year with a A-average (barely). I was rewarded with an O in Herbology, to be expected, and an A in Potions, Transfiguration, Astronomy and History of Magic. Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts were failed — a Poor for each, which was better than I was expecting from them. Pandora and Xenophilius passed with O's for everything except Astronomy and DADA. Alice was a clean-cut straight E-student.

("You didn't get an O for History of Magic?"

"I flunked the exam on purpose." She sniffed. "It's my act of rebellion against my dad."

"What'd he _do?_ "

"He sent me a tub of rocky road ice cream for my birthday! That's what he did!")

"You're a terrible student," Sirius remarked, peering at my report card. "Did you seriously fail DADA? Are you utterly incompetent?"

"Yes!" I snapped, elbowing him away from me. "What did you get? All O's, I suppose?"

"That rhymed, and yes. Yes I did." Sirius snatched my pieced up toast and dunked it into my egg. I sneered at him. He egg-nored me (ha ha) and continued poaching (ha ha!) from my breakfast. "Beat out James, in fact. DIDN'T I, JAMES?"

An entire table away, James hollered back, "I DON'T KNOW WHAT HE'S SAYING TO YOU, CAL, BUT I GUARANTEE THAT YOU THAT HE IS A DIRTY FILTHY LIAR."

"See?" Sirius said primly, a proud smile on his face. "I trounced him, he's bitter."

"How did Lupin do? Pettigrew?"

"Remy got an A in Potions and Herbology, Peter has one foot in the A's and the other in T's. Except with Transfiguration. He got an O in that one. What'd you get there again?"

"An A."

"What, you actually passed that subject?"

"Frank helped."

"Oh, he's _Frank_ now, is he? _I_ remember when he used to be Longbottom. Or, Merlin forbid" — he gasped, and I whacked his shoulder — " _that pudgy one that keeps bugging me at the galas._ Do you remember when you used to call him that? Do you think _Frank_ wants to remember that?"

"I never called him that to his face!"

"So generous, a regular Good Samaritan."

"I am a _saint,_ Sirius Orion, and don't you _forget it._ " I snatched his goblet (my goblet, technically, but he'd been nursing it all morning so this was actually my first taste from it) and finished it off. I placed it on the table, where it magically refilled. "Why are you here, bothering me, when you should be spending your last day with your mates?"

"Because," Sirius began haughtily, "I need a _favour._ "

"Oh." I said, humming. I grabbed another piece of somehow-still-warm-and-crunchy toast and another boiled egg, cracking it open with a knife. Sirius bounced his leg under the table. I pieced my toast up, dunked it in the runny yolk, and then chewed thoughtfully. I swallowed. Opened my mouth. Said, cheerfully, "Mmmm, _no_."

Sirius reared back in offense. "Why not?"

"Because you Transfigured my feather into a ingot of steel when I was levitating it in Charms and it gave that greasy kid in my class a concussion? For which I received a month's worth of detention for."

"I'm still pleased that you didn't dob me in," Sirius reassured me, as if that was ever in question, before continuing on, "And the greasy kid deserved it. Trust me."

"I don't."

"Well, you should. You should also consider doing me this favour."

"No."

"Why not," Sirius whined. He grunted and then knocked his head against my shoulder. "Cal, come _ooooonnn!_ It's just one little favour!"

"Yeah, _for you._ I'm not involving myself with any of your _schemes._ "

"Schemes seems too diabolical. Use another word."

"I'm not involving myself with any of your _plots._ "

Sirius' smile was approving. "I like that one. Yes, I'm _plotting. Plot._ You are involving yourself in my _plot._ None of this _scheming_ nonsense."

"Please get to a point."

"Only if you find Pandora and drag her here. And her boyfriend too, I guess."

"… Why."

"She makes you a lot more susceptible to my plots. The chances of you doing something for me improve by, like, 60% when she's around. Makes for good odds."

"One—you made that statistic up. Two—Pandora's down there with Finch, see, they're talking about some misplaced luggage or something."

"Where's her boyfriend at?"

"Hufflepuff table with Alice. He's trying to visit her this holidays, they're working it out."

Sirius hummed. "Fortescue?"

"Yup."

"You befriended Alice Fortescue?"

"Yes…?"

"The _discount_ you must get at Fortescue's. Man, I'm so jealous. All I get is a lifetime supply of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion that I'll never need to use because of my uniquely divine DNA."

"Who are you getting Sleekeazy's from? You have, like, three friends." I frowned at him. Sirius waggled his eyebrows. I blinked, mouth dropping open a little. Remus was a half-blood, Peter was a muggle-born with a muggle-born uncle, so that left — "… You're kidding."

"That depends on who you think I'm getting the Sleekeazy's from."

"It doesn't _make sense._ " I was disbelieving. "James' hair is _unruly._ There's no way his _father_ invented Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, I can't believe that! Why doesn't he use it on himself?"

"Doesn't work that well on him, his hair is, like, magically resistant to it or something, but it worked just fine on everyone else, so his dad mass produced it and put it on the market. I think it's only James and his mum who can't use it? Still, it's pretty awesome, right?"

"I am _alarmed._ "

"I thought it was hilarious."

" _It is._ " I assured him. "I'm just in a state of shock. It'll sink in eventually."

"Hmm," Sirius grabbed my goblet again. I ignored him. "Speaking of the Potters…"

I tensed at his tone. "… What, Sirius." I had an inkling that his tone had something to do with the favour he was about to ask. And if his favour had anything to do with the Potters, I already wanted out. "Don't drag it out, I don't have the patience for that."

(An entire summer with Bella and Narcissa and Mother and Father and oh god I was going to die—)

"Right then, like a bandaid then? I can work with that." Sirius took a deep breath. "It isn't even much of a favour as it is… well, it's a favour, actually. I need you to take a curse for me. Or a couple of curses. Not _literally_ " — he hastened to say when he saw the look on my face, looking apologetic — "At least, I think it isn't literally? It's — okay, look, I'm not going back to the house."

I tilted my head. Slowly. "For how long?"

"A week. Just a week. James' parents already said it was okay and they think my parents are okay with it so it'll be—nice, peaceful, for a bit. Mother will catch on quickly is the thing so… So."

"So."

"So."

"So…" I flared my nostrils and placed everything in my hands on a plate. I inhaled. I exhaled. "So you need me to distract Lady Black long enough for you to live it up at the Potter Manor?"

"Well—yeah, that's it, really."

"Your curse-happy mother? That's the one you want me to distract?"

Sirius winced. "Ah… yes?" I pinched the bridge of my nose and _breathed._ "Okay, look, listen, I know! I know that it's, it's kind of a lot to ask for, and that it isn't going to be — _pleasant_ — but it would mean _a lot_ if you could just do me this _one thing—_ "

"Oh, shut up." I snapped. "I'll do it, of course. One of us ought to be happy this break and I don't see why it shouldn't be you. If I tried to escape to Pandora's house, Mr and Mrs Travers would send me right back. The Potters wouldn't do that to you, right?"

"Of course not. They're good folk."

"Right then. I'll do it." Sirius threw his head back and whooped. Loudly. I tried to physically shrink into my robes. "Just—just have fun, I guess. For the both of us."

"Definitely." Sirius said, and it sounded like a promise. "You're my favourite cousin, Cal. You really, really, _really_ are. Even better than Dromeda!"

"No one's better than Andy. …But thanks." I sniffed. "I guess."

"I'll make it up to you!"

"No you won't."

"Yes I will!"

"No, you really won't, because you don't really have anything to offer me, Siri." I elbowed him gently to take the edge out of my words. "Appreciate the sentiment though. You can leave and tell James now if you want to, I'm sure he's waiting for a response."

Sirius looked like he wanted nothing more than to bolt back to the Gryffindor table and sing about his newfound freedom. I was expecting it.

Unfortunately for my estimating skills, Sirius had a habit of surprising me. Or I had a habit of underestimating him. Both of them at once, perhaps.

Sirius stayed right where he was and grabbed a strip of bacon. "I think I'll sit here with you for a bit." He said, tearing into the meat with his abnormally sharp canines. "I want to hear everything you have to say about Frank Longbottom and his _tutoring._ "

I scowled, which was more difficult than you might think when you were also trying to stamp down on the urge to smile. "Stop making it sound— _dirty._ "

"It already sounds _dirty._ You know he's had a crush on you since _forever,_ right?"

I scoffed. "Yeah right, you liar. Pull the other one."

Sirius giggled to himself. "Aaaaah, fine, don't believe me. It'll come to the surface eventually, you just wait."

"Whatever." I swallowed my egg toast. "I don't want to talk about him. Tell me about the greasy Slytherin I accidentally gave a concussion to instead. What'd he do to deserve that?"

Sirius' eyes _gleamed._ "Oh, _Cal,_ do I have some _stories for you._ "

.

* * *

.

"What was that about?" Pandora asked, settling in next to me. Sirius had evacuated the table as soon as he spotted Pandora approaching, so there was room around me for a visitor. "Did he want something?"

"Just a favour. How did your conversation with Eliza go?"

"Good, she said that some of her stuff was missing as well and we compared our items. She had to go and grab Boot because _she_ was missing some things as well. Everything was accounted for in each other's luggage, we're going to take care of it when we finish breakfast. Are you coming with?"

"I was thinking of spending the rest of the morning with Xeno. He doesn't look too excited to go back to the orphanage, you know."

"Worried?" She asked, a gentle pull to the corners of his lips. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"He's a friend. Just like you are—almost. You still win." I sent her a glancing smile. Pandora blinked, looking a bit startled, before returning the smile with a warmth I could never capture. "Have you said goodbye to everyone yet?"

"Mostly. Maybe I'll join you and Xeno when I'm done with Finch."

"That'd be nice," There was something pushing against my ribcage; warm and shy and throbbing. "That'd—I'd like that, I think."

"Yeah?" Pandora's eyebrows ticked up.

I licked my lips. "Yeah." I was a few short hours away from going back to the house, and yet, sitting before Pandora, I could safely say that it was the last thing on my mind. I looked down and returned to my breakfast, which I had neglected to gossip with Sirius. "Yeah, I really would."

I didn't look up again, but I didn't need to. I could read Pandora's approval just by feeling it in the ambiance. She shifted closer, pressed her shoulder against mine, and drew a plate of scrambled eggs to her. Xeno joined us a few short minutes later, greeted with twin smiles. We didn't need to speak. There was a string of understanding and compassion entwining the three of us.

Tomorrow, I would wake to the faces of my disapproving parents, and it would be like being left under the baking sun to rot.

But today, I woke up to Pandora's face hanging over mine, blonde hair framing her face, to Xenophilius' gentle fingers, Alice's deep dimples, and to Sirius' _stupid_ waggling eyebrows.

Today, I was good.

That was all that mattered for now.

.

...

.

 **"** _Sometimes silence is the greatest sign of understanding and of respect. It is far more consoling than words of false comfort._ **"**

.

...

 **.**

 **…**

 **.**

...

Authors Note:

The chapters will be me ploughing through her Hogwarts years as quickly as humanly possible so we won't have to deal with the awkward stumps any longer. I actually wrote this chapter because I got a hate-review from a neckbeard who basically demanded that I apologize to him for making Callidora gay and eleven years old.

This is a spite chapter. Let it be known.


	7. the world seemed to burn

**Title:** fish hooks in the corners of their mouths

 **Summary:** "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]

 **Rating:** Tentative T

 **Disclaimer:** Disclaimed

 **Dedication:** This one goes out to **Gladoo89**! Now there is a real cool cat.

 **Warnings:** Pretty explicit child abuse (but nothing descriptive)

.

* * *

08.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouth**

 _the world seemed to burn_

* * *

.

 _I should have known better._

There was a crack, and then my legs gave out.

Adrenaline coursed through my body; survival was a river rushing in my chest. The floor slipped from under me, tilting, and I caught myself on my hands. There was a movement in the corner of my eye — Kritter? — that had my nerves flaring. On the side of my face there was a swelling; a blooming.

(I began to wonder, _Is this even real?)_

The moment passes. The adrenaline crashes. I have no doubt of my existence — dreams have never caused my ears to ring like the solid connection of a well-aimed hand could.

I swallowed around my dry tongue and wiped at my face. When had I started to cry? It didn't feel like anything, maybe that was why I hadn't noticed. Usually my eyes stung and my nose burned before I cried. I guess the fact that my face was numb might have worked against that.

Mother stared down at me. I knew that face. I had not seen it in a while: the rage, the gritted teeth, the twitching, curling fingers, like her hands ached for something to hold, to _squeeze_. Mother twisted her wedding ring. Blew alcohol-stained breath across her throbbing knuckles. Said, "You made me break my streak."

I said nothing. What was there to say? I just hoped not to trigger another hit. I had simple desires.

Mother stared. Waited for something. Whatever it was she was searching for, I was determined not to give it. My face was composed of marble and steel. She could not read a single thing off it that I wasn't handing to her on a silver platter. I knew her patience would not support her long enough for my own resolution to fracture.

While she poked and prodded me with her eyes, I tucked myself away inside my own mind and waited. Muted. Reclusive.

Mother scoffed. She turned around. "Leave. Get out. Don't let me see you again, girl. I've no patience for blood traitors under my roof."

She kept her back to me.

I scrambled to my feet and felt the contents of my stomach jump to my throat. I swallowed down the bile and kept my hands flush against the wall, staggering out of the room. I closed the door to the living room behind me and tried to ignore the sound of shattering glass.

'Home sweet home', huh?

Ha fucking _ha_.

Kritter was standing at the staircase, floppy ears flat against her face. "Mistress — " she began, and did not continue. She ducked her head and stared determinedly at her scabbed feet. I thought she might say something. I was wrong.

From the living room, Mother shrieked. "Kritter! Come!"

Kritter didn't even dare to look at me before she disappeared with a pop. I stared at the spot she had once stood and had the most childish urge to grab the drapes and tear them down, to scream and cry and smash the three hundred year old vase that sat at the entryway. I wanted to shatter expensive things. I wanted to throw a tantrum and I wanted to get away with it and I wanted, I wanted, _I wanted_.

I stormed out through the veranda door and bee lined for the closest greenhouse.

I regretted it instantly.

The closer I got, the more obvious it became that my gardens had been tainted by outside influence. My ear throbbed. I picked up my robes and sprinted for the greenhouse, a disharmony of voices screaming in my head. I threw open the door and stepped into my sanctuary, and saw that it had been—it had been completely—

Bits and pieces of clay pots were all over the greenhouse, crunching under my soles. There was more soil on the concrete floor than there were around plants, dry like dirt. All of the plants had been uprooted and blasted, withered and crunchy under my feet as I searched for a little piece of this desolation that _hadn't_ been ruined. I could find nothing of the sort. There was not an inch of my greenhouse that hadn't been hurt by resentful spell-work.

A vine hanging from the ceiling reached out and stroked my hair as I walked past. I stopped, stroked its leaves, greeted it softly with, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Everything had been destroyed.

My greenhouse had been _polluted_.

I collapsed to my knees and dug my fingers in the soil. In the handful I had clenched in my fist, there was a wriggling sensation. I opened my fist and saw an earthworm crawling, slowly inching across my palm. I stared as it made a full circuit around my palm a couple of times before dropping off my hand and landing in the soil on the floor.

The sun beat down on my back.

My bones were aching.

I wanted to _hurt_ something. God, but I wanted to _destroy_ something, make someone _bleed,_ because _this_ — _this_ felt like an act of _sacrilege ._ My _garden,_ someone had entered my greenhouse and blindly threw curses until none of the beauty that I had cultivated remained. My plants were withered, my soil dry, my peace was _compromised._

I picked up the bud of the seven-pointed flower that laid in front of me, half-buried in soil. I had been eight when Uncle Alphard gifted me with the flower. He'd said it looked pretty: that it needed talented, nurturing hands to guide it into adulthood, that he thought it would fit in well with the rest of my plants. I had loved it most, seeing as it was the first plant Uncle Alphard had ever given me. He was the first one to stop scoffing at my hobby. It had meant so much to me at the time – still did, in fact.

And now it was rotting on the floor of my greenhouse. Because I had been sorted into Ravenclaw.

I was surrounded by shattered clay and dirt and all I could think was, _Filthy blood traitor indeed._ There was nothing pure about me at all.

(I sat until the cicadas started singing and the owls started barking and the worms crept in between my splayed fingers.

I did not move, I did not move, I did not move, I did not move.)

.

* * *

.

No one has ever quite managed to grasp how much my greenhouse means — _meant_ to me. So don't feel bad if it doesn't make sense to you. 'It's just a garden,' Right? 'They're just plants and a bunch of worms. What's the big deal about it?' I can tell that's what you're thinking. It's all over your face. Gardens don't mean much to you. It's just food, Callidora. Just herbs and leaves. There's nothing to be upset about.

Okay. If you think that then that's all I have to say to you: okay. Fine. If you don't get it, you don't get it.

If you choose to forget that I've been working on that garden since I was seven then fine, _okay._ If you choose to forget that I have bled for that garden then _fine, okay._ If you don't want to remember that some of my happiest memories are of me quietly tending to my garden, of me escaping my parents to harvest from the greenhouse that they despised, of me learning how to conjure _fire_ without a _wand_ for these _dumb plants,_ then _fine. okay._

You don't get it.

But just because it means nothing to _you_ doesn't mean that that garden wasn't the _only_ part of my house that was worth coming back to.

'Home is where the heart is', right? Well, guess where my heart had been.

Guess where my essence was concentrated.

If you want to know someone without talking to them, you find the space that they dedicate most of themselves to and you _look_ at it. You know a poet by their poems, by their worn notebooks and cathedral of empty ink pots. You know a musician by their lyrics, by their music, by their instruments. You tended to know a teenager by their room.

A pureblood with muggle posters glued to the wall? —a rebel child; drapes of silver and emerald with newspaper clippings of attacks on muggleborns? —an aspiring death eater. Not being able to step two inches in any direction from the doorway without kicking a book? —a lover of books.

If you isolated a person's most beloved medium, you uncovered a vital part of their personality. You discovered where their souls journeyed off to in their idle moments, what drove them, what woke them up in the morning. Their muse, spite, the desire to learn, to live up to expectations, the urge to _create_. In my case, it was my yearning to _nurture_

My room was bare, superficial. Dark wallpaper, dark floors, posters from my younger years. The only thing that mattered in my room was the bed and the trunk, both of which were warded against intruders. My greenhouse, on the other hand, was an _explosion_ of life. Artists bleed for their craft, I had no right to do any less than that for my garden. Gardening was my medium, my escape.

And someone had walked in there and _blew it up._ _Four years_ down the drain, just like that.

So _yeah,_ I was a _bit upset._

 _Sue me._

.

* * *

.

At least the wards around my chest of ingredients were undisturbed. It was a small comfort. So small, in fact, that I could barely consider it a comfort at all. I was sorting through my inventory when someone knocked on the door. I froze. Was it Mother? Father? _Cissy?_ I resolved to go back to my inventory. No one could enter my room without my explicit permission, I had made sure of that much.

The person knocked again. I paused. Someone called softly, "Dora?"

Oh.

I hadn't been expecting her.

I stood to disable the wards around my door. "Andy?"

"Can I come in?"

I returned to my chest and carefully stepped around my jars and beakers until I was in the middle. I sat cross-legged with a little circle of space around me. "It's open." I called only once I was comfortable. The door clicked open. I heard her shoes against the dark wood floors. I didn't turn to greet her, which was quite rude, but I really didn't have the patience for decorum today. "I thought you were spending the holidays with someone who doesn't live here. If I had known you were staying, I would have stopped by your room."

"No, I was with the Holloway's. I just got here now, in fact. I made my way over first thing in the morning when I received the letter last night. Cissy told me that…" Andromeda sounded tired, but jovial enough. Things must have been happening in her own life that she wasn't telling me. I couldn't think of another reason why she'd be tired. "I didn't think you would come back."

"I wasn't told not to." I grabbed a jar, noted its label, and crossed out something on my parchment. Amazonian Wonder-buds were accounted for, thank merlin. I hadn't grown these ones, I didn't have the right soil or temperate for them; they were very hard (read: expensive) to procure. "Did you come here immediately? It must have been a hasty departure. The family didn't take offence, did they?"

"No, Steph understood. They're half-bloods. Pureblood customs don't apply to them."

"Hooray." I murmured, shuffling through some vials. "There's a silver lining to everything, isn't there?"

Andromeda sighed. "Steph is a good friend, but that's… that isn't relevant. How are you?"

"Fine." I sniffed. "Tired, I guess. I was up all night."

"Doing what?" She asked. I didn't answer. She made a discontented noise but, thankfully, did not press the subject. "Kritter tells me that you didn't come in last night."

"Figured I'd do some impromptu-camping. Try it out. Get some experience under my belt. All the, you know, all the cool stuff." Andromeda made a non-committal noise. I felt something cold in my hand and focused on the label I was reading. I hadn't even realized I had picked something up. Look down at my list, I saw that I had apparently crossed some ingredients out. Well… that was annoying.

"What about you? Did you enjoy your apprenticeship?"

"Yes. Ainley is more knowledgeable than one might expect when first meeting her. Her appearance belies her experience that way, I'm certain that she is older than she admits to being." I nodded absently in agreement. "I believe last month was her—fifth? sixth? time turning thirty-five. She holds the record in the office for it."

"Mmhm."

Krypticks: check. Mandrake stems and leaves: check. Gillyweed is still there and as insubstantial as ever—I seriously had to remember to stock up on that.

"What about your friends? Is Pandora intending on visiting?"

"She's intending as such, yes."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know, it's complicated." I screwed my mouth to the side. "She'll come if she can."

Andromeda at least resists asking what could possibly keep Pandora from here. It's nice not to be patronized.

"And the other one? Xenophilius? Or is it Alice?"

"Xeno's staying with Alice for two weeks,"

Andromeda's voice was warm. "He's the orphan?"

"Aye." I went back to my bottles. "He's the orphan."

Andromeda waited. When she understood that I was not going to continue speaking, she snapped, "Would you please _look at me_?" My shoulders tensed. "Your letters have been short, sometimes you don't reply for weeks, and now that I'm back, you can't stand to look me in the eye? Did I do wrong by you? How am I supposed to apologize if I don't know where I've misstepped—"

"You haven't misstepped."

"Then _turn around._ "

I deliberately placed my jar down.

"Dora, _please._ I want to see my little sister."

I clicked my teeth together and surprisingly didn't sigh. I stood and stepped out of the circle of jars, keeping my back to my big sister until I was certain a stumble _wouldn't_ smash all of my jars. I bee lined for a closet and plucked out a wide-brimmed hat. I briefly considered the matching lace gloves as I spoke.

"Do you want to go to Fortescue's? Alice promised that I could get a discount with her father if I mentioned her."

"You already know what I want."

'I'll give you that if you agree to get ice cream with me," I bargained, "and some of that concealer I know you have somewhere. I don't think Cissy wants to share with me."

"Concealer? What could you possible want concealer fo — _Merlin._ " I had turned around. Andromeda's eyes were stuck to the bruise on the side of my face. Her chin trembled. I knew without looking that her fingers were curled into fists. "She _struck_ you?"

"Just once." I murmured, looking away. "She could have done worse." Indeed, the ugly purple thing on my cheekbone wasn't the worst injury I'd ever received from my mother. "Don't be mad,"

"How else am I supposed to _feel_?"

"It isn't like I didn't _deserve_ it—"

" _You didn't._ " I hunkered my shoulders even higher. Andromeda's voice was trembling. "Is this because of your sorting?"

"Probably my choice of friends as well. But mostly, yeah, the sorting."

Andromeda swayed forward until we were nose-to-nose. She reached down and gently prodded the bruise, causing me to flinch violently. The corners of her eyes crinkled in apology, so I grounded my feet and let her fingers stroke the damn thing. I considered telling her that it was better than it looked, but I wasn't sure how much truth was in that. "Have you put ice to it?"

"Of course I did,"

"Does it hurt terribly?"

"No."

"Are you lying to me?"

"It's likely."

Andromeda's fingers fell from my face. She looked like someone had reached down her throat and closed a hand around her lungs. "She really hit you," She breathed, lips curling. "Merlin, I hate that woman. I wish she'd never—" Andromeda cut herself off sharply, "Have you seen Father yet?"

"He's still in Bulgaria."

"And Cissy? What did she have to say about" — she gestured at my face — "this? I can't imagine she was happy."

I scoffed at that. "I'm having a hard time imagining Cissy saying anything due to the fact that she and I haven't spoken a word to each other since September."

'Surprised' was too mild a word. "You and Cissy aren't speaking? But she was the one—"

"The one who what?" I said, probably a mite too sharply. "What did she do?"

"…Nothing—"

" _Andy._ "

Andromeda stared at me for a moment. She sighed irritably and crossed her arms. "Cissy and I have been communicating all year. She regales me with tales of her housemate's antics and her personal musings on the matter of school. She also likes to keep me up to date on what _you're_ doing."

I didn't dare say as much out loud, but it was obvious that I was doubting that.

Andromeda frowned at me. "I'm telling the truth. Half of Cissy's fortnightly letters are about the details of your exploits that you conveniently forget to share with me. Like the potions incident in your second month."

There was a toad in my throat. Narcissa had been thinking of me? Writing about me? What did that mean? "What else does she tell you?" I probably came off a bit rabid.

Andromeda's frown didn't let up. "Have you two really not been talking?"

I shook my head. "Cissy hasn't so much as _looked_ at me since the — the sorting. You're saying she writes to you about me?" Andromeda nodded. I thought that this must be what it's like to be hit with a concussion grenade. Things were swimming in and out of focus. My ears were ringing. I had a throbbing headache that had come from nowhere. And I was kind of pissed off. "Well, if she has **so much** to say about me, why doesn't she just say it **to me** _?_ "

"I don't know, Dora," said my sister, sounding vaguely apologetic. "I'd assumed you two were still talking. She seemed to be aware of an awful amount of your life, I had no reason to suspect you two were at odds with each other." A well and true rage was beginning to bubble in my gut.

" **She wouldn't look at me** _._ " I tried to hiss this, but it came out more… wobbly than I was hoping for. Almost like I was going to **cry** _._ Which was completely absurd. "She wouldn't—she couldn't even **look** at me—and now you're saying that she, she's been, what, watching me? All this time, she's been watching me?"

Andromeda made an ambiguous gesture.

"Why didn't she—" _say anything._

"I was so—" _alone, I was stranded._

"I—" _I needed her. I needed her and she wasn't there for me._

I took a breath. "She doesn't get to do that to me, Andy. She doesn't have the right _._ "

Andy looked — torn. "She's your sister, Dora. She'll always care."

"Then _why_ —" _couldn't she_ _ **act**_ _like it?!_

I had to stop.

I couldn't breathe.

Andy watched me warily, obviously undecided on which sister's side she was supposed to be taking. The thought almost made me laugh.

(Jesus, I hate this family.)

"It isn't my fault! Andy, it isn't my fault!" Andromeda jerked, brow furrowing in confusion. She opened her mouth and I cut her off before she could speak. "If I'm — if I'm doubting her, it's because she wants me to! I couldn't, what was I supposed to think? She wouldn't even — I didn't even think that she still — _it's her fault,_ what was I supposed to _do_ — "

Realisation dawned.

"Oh. Oh, _Dora_ , my dearest sister,"

I was being hugged. My arms remained at my side, tense like a string of wire pulled tight. Andromeda placed her hand on the back of my head and carded her fingers through my hair.

"Don't blame yourself. You know how Cissy is; she probably has some sneaky hidden agenda that none of us mere mortals are aware of. If you began to doubt her then that's surely what she intended. It isn't your fault." I ground my molars together. "Are you listening? I believe you. It isn't your fault. There's no need to hold it in anymore."

I trembled.

I **wasn't finished** _yet._

I still had **novels** to write about this, I could redefine the definition of 'resentment' with the swell of the emotion inside of me.

She left me **stranded** _._ Did Andromeda understand that? I was **deserted** _._ I needed my big sister to stick by me and she hadn't.

She hadn't.

"I'm here, Dora." Andromeda was whispering lowly. If I had any awareness of my body outside of this raging surge, I'd probably be embarrassed. Being hugged and whispered to as if I were some sort of _child_ … how humiliating. "I'm here. I'm sorry I didn't realize how alone you were feeling. I'm here now. I'm here." _I'm here, I'm here, I'm here._ That was all she was saying, as if I didn't understand it the first time. "I won't leave you."

I snorted.

The hand in my hair clenched. "Have you heard from Bella?" She asked. I hesitated but eventually shook my head negatively. Andromeda didn't make a sound. She just continued to rub my back. Like I was a baby. I struggled a bit in her hold. Her arms tightened instead of loosening. "I'm so sorry, Dora. You have _every right_ to be as angry as you are. I'm here. I'm listening."

And that was just—

 _I'm not angry,_ I wanted to scream at her, _I'm not sad and I'm not lonely, and you wanna know why? You really wanna know? I'll tell you. Because someone destroyed my greenhouse, and yeah, maybe I_ do _want blood, maybe I do want to bruise my knuckles against someone's face and maybe I want to tear Cissy's pretty fair hair from her head and maybe I want throw away my wand and dive head-first at Mother and hit her and ask her how it feels to have her own technique turned against her but that isn't sad or lonely or angry_ —

(and I wasn't **angry** _—_ )

"Let it go, sister. Let it all go. It's okay, I'm here, I'm not leaving you again. It's okay to cry. I'm here, Dora. You aren't alone." But I wasn't going to let it go. Those who had driven me to this point did not _deserve_ that mercy. I shook in Andromeda's arms and she hushed and soothed me and my eyes were _dry._

( **this** isn't **anger** —)

I wasn't angry, not because those things did not bother me — did not cut straight to my heart — but because ' **angry** ' was too soft a _word_ for the boiling surging in my veins; like the only reason my heart continued to pump blood through my body was the promise of **retribution** _._ That wasn't **anger**. This wasn't even an **emotion** _._

 **This**? This was balancing on the edge of a knife; this was being tied to a burning stake and not uttering a **sound** ; this was the absolute stillness of a sniper's heart nanoseconds before they pulled the trigger.

This was not an emotion;

it was a **reckoning**.

I was not angry.

' **Angry** _'_ did not even begin to cover it.

.

* * *

.

 _( "…You mentioned a discount at Fortescue's?"_

" _25% on any of the seven original Fortescue flavours."_

" _How'd you manage that?"_

" _The Alice I mention in my letters? Her last name is Fortescue. She's the owner's daughter."_

" _That's very, er, nice..."_

"…"

"…"

"…"

"… _You know… I really expected to find Sirius dogging your steps when I came back. I'm surprised he isn't lingering. Is he actually staying with Lady Black?"_

"… _Erm… well, about that…" )_

.

* * *

.

Callidora arrives by Floo at eleven o'clock on the dot, just as she promised she would. Pandora is there to greet her, swallows her best friend in a hug without caring for the ash that clings to Callidora's robes. Her best friend lets out a startled noise, hands only belatedly remembering to come up and return the hug. Cal's always been like that, far as Pandora's ever known: skittish, awkward, a bit _lacking_ in the emotions department.

…Not that Pandora minds it! If anything, she likes teaching Callidora about these things.

Callidora's hands are awkward on Pandora's back, but they're there, which is good enough. "Hello," she says, sounding a bit strangled. Considering Pandora is crushing her against her chest, that is completely fair. "I don't think it has been four days since we left Hogwarts, Pan. You can't have missed me that much."

Pandora tightens her grip for a moment—ignoring Callidora's tensing because Callidora only gets _worse_ if Pandora asks about that—before pulling away. She's in the middle of saying, "But I have missed you that much," when she finally notices the disgusting yellow **thing** on Callidora's face.

She freezes. Holds her breath. **Stares**.

Callidora shifts, backs up enough so Pandora can't hold onto her anymore, looking so uncomfortable with Pandora's staring that Pandora wishes she could _stop_ staring, but that isn't something she is capable of. Pandora doesn't know what she's feeling at all, honestly. A bit sick, a bit confused, a bit uncomfortable, a bit like her skin is crystalline pulled tight over steel bones. All of them at once. It's a mite bit distressing.

Mostly, she thinks she just wants it to go away.

Callidora says, "I, uh, fell from a tree."

The confusing emotions all dim down a bit, shift to the side to make room for **indignation** _._ Pandora's **offended** _._

"'You **fell** ,'" Pandora's tone is insultingly disbelieving. She keeps her hands on Cal's biceps in case she gets any ideas. "Don't insult me."

"I didn't," The smaller girl replies. "I would have remembered something like that."

"Then don't lie to me," Pandora snaps, and Callidora sighs, flicks her eyes so they're looking everywhere Pandora _isn't._ "Did you get into a fight?" She asks, then quickly feels silly for it. Callidora doesn't go looking for fights. If anything, fights go looking for her, and even then, Callidora never hits back (which, huh, is probably why Cal _loses_ all the time).

Besides, Pandora's met Druella Black so she already kind of _knows_ what fist gave Cal that bruise, she's not _dumb_.

(Just… not sure what she's supposed to do about it.)

"Only with gravity."

"So—a person didn't give you that?"

"No," Callidora replies, scratching her nose.

Pandora feels her face crumble. She says, "I wish you were a better liar than that, Cal," and watches as Callidora's muscles freeze. She shoves her hands in her pockets. She looks shifty and skittish and uncomfortable, which is _not_ a nice look when paired with the mustard-eggplant coloured bruise on her face, and Pandora just wishes it would.

Stop.

She just wants it to stop.

"One day," Cal looks at the ceiling, "I will train myself out of that tell, and you and god damn Edgar Bones will be _lost_."

Pandora wants to laugh. It makes her feel bad because this isn't really a situation to find humour in. It never is. Cal has been showing up at Pandora's house with bruises since… forever, really. Pandora can't remember when she started asking about them either, only when she started getting a response. And even that was a special circumstance.

Pandora doesn't know what her face looks like, but it must be bad, because Callidora is doing **it** _._

 **It** being the thing where she wipes clean her face of all expression and leaves nothing behind but a bland smile (like stale bread, it is) and her eyes — which have never been able to hide much from Pandora. Even when Callidora practically beats her facial expressions into obedience, Pandora has always been able to count on Callidora's eyes to tell her what she's really feeling.

And when Callidora starts doing the _thing_ with her face, her eyes are just — **old** _._

And sad.

And dark.

And Pandora doesn't know what her eyes are saying but she hates when they say it anyway.

It isn't a nice thing.

Suffice to say, Pandora really, really, **really** hates **It**.

"It's nothing for you to worry about, Pan," Callidora tells her. **Tells** her, as if she's one step away from **ordering** Pandora, as if she **can**. "I promise."

Pandora grits her teeth and wishes she wasn't comforted by Cal's words. Wishes that she could push and push until Cal bent and **gave up** , just a little, just enough to let Pandora in. Wishes that she understood enough about this situation so she could be **angrier** about it (and she knew that anger was the appropriate response, if only because that was her **mother's** response to the bruises, and Mother was always right).

Merlin, but if wishes were horses…

"Okay," Pandora gives in, "okay, I'll believe you. For now."

Cal smiles, and it's less bland than her other one, but still a league away from breathtakingly genuine.

It's good enough for Pandora.

Any of Cal true smiles usually are. They're funny that way.

"Thanks," Cal whispers, and it's the sheer relief in her voice that settles the last of Pandora's stubborn nerves, "… and I've missed you too. For whatever it's worth."

Pandora feels her mouth stretch into a grin. She steps forward and winds her arm in Callidora's, begins to walk her towards her room. "It's worth more than you could imagine, Cal," and Cal, _well_ , Cal's smile softens and blooms just that little bit brighter, and the feeling of helplessness that's nagging at the edge of Pandora's mind goes a bit quieter at the sight of it.

Cal kind of laughs in that disbelieving way she does sometimes. "I'll take your word for it." Her voice sounds like how the first glimmer of sunrise looks.

Pandora's stomach does a strange clenching thing that she really doesn't understand. Instead of chasing that feeling, Pandora says "Will you at least let Jinkee look at that bruise? We have bruise paste somewhere, I'm certain."

"… Sure."

"Good. Jinkee!"

.

* * *

.

I was in the middle of pretending to do my Transfiguration reading for my second year (an extra credit assignment that I picked up because I desperately needed my foot in the door, so to speak, when it came to that fucking subject) and _actually_ reading my fifth year textbook on Transfiguration when my door slammed open on its hinges and an unwelcome voice announced, "I have returned!"

I studiously kept my eyes on my book, not reacting at all. "It's been nine days. I had thought you weren't coming back."

"I wanted to see how long I could keep it going," Sirius said, sounding quite pleased with himself. And also very happy. I took that to mean that he had had a nice time with the Potter's and didn't see a need to know any more than that. "You don't have to worry any longer, however, as I am back and here to stay. You can breathe easier knowing that I will be at your side again."

I sighed and turned a page. I didn't know which book the page belonged to. The contents of the books had gotten blurry and mixed up around thirty minutes ago. At this point, the only thing keeping me in the library was spite.

"You are misunderstanding me. I'm not upset that you're _late,_ I'm upset that you returned at _all._ "

"That isn't very nice,"

I scoffed.

And then had the sneaking suspicion that he was pouting at me.

"If I had even remotely missed you while I was away, I've been disillusioned," he declared, throwing himself across my lap without so much as a 'hey you should watch out because I'm going to completely upend your plans for the evening with my obnoxious face and you should probably put a bookmark down before I do that'.

Dios santo, what was _wrong with him_.

"Pay attention to me." He— _demanded._ That fucking _snob._

I scowled, "No."

He frowned back at me. "Don't make me have to do something drastic,"

"Go ahead and try it, kid."

"I was on my best behaviour for the Potter's, Cal. I have a lot of pent-up annoyingness that I am prepared to unleash on you if you don't give in to my demands."

"… Did you learn new words while you were gone?"

Which was about the time when Sirius started screaming. He wasn't even using any words. It was just one long, high-pitched note that was disturbingly on-key.

I was, like, instantly irritated by it. "Sirius, stop."

" — aaaaaahhhhhh — "

"Why are you like this,"

" — _aaaaaaaaaahhh_ —"

"Could you just consider toning it down a little,"

" — _**aaaaaaaahhhhh ! ! !**_ — "

"FOR GOD'S SAKE SIRIUS WHAT DO YOU _WANT_."

Sirius abruptly stopped screaming in order to take several deep breaths. "I want you to entertain me," He ordered.

I clicked my tongue and finally looked up at him. He looked precisely the same as I remembered him, if not just that little bit happier than usual. You know, that type of joy that lingered in the lines of your face. I wasn't used to seeing it on him, but it suited him. Sirius had a face that was meant to look happy, I think. Not a face meant for Grimmauld Place.

I narrowed my eyes, "I dislike you immensely," I said.

"For some reason I doubt that," Sirius said, "It's probably the fact that you're letting me sit in your lap."

"You aren't sitting on my lap," I hissed, and then shoved him out of my lap and onto the floor, forgetting that he was sitting on top of a book. It went tumbling after him with an ominous ripping sound. There was a sharp silence. Sirius twisted around and pulled something out from under his back.

It was exactly what I suspected.

He hummed. "I hope this wasn't important. Why are you reading about…" He brought the paper closer to his face. "… Animagi transformations? Isn't that a bit, er, advanced for you?"

"Just because I can't put the theory into _practice_ doesn't mean I can't _understand_ it."

"What's the point of understanding if you can't _do_? There's no fun in that." Sirius huffed and sat up. "Why are you reading about Transfiguration anyway? I thought you hated it. Almost as much as you hate DADA."

I frowned. "I don't hate Transfiguration." Which was a lie, and I knew that much. I had once said, while looking Sirius straight in the eye, that anyone who genuinely enjoyed Transfiguration deserved to be burned at the stake. I suspected that he hadn't dared forget that.

"Such a flagrant lie." He sighed. Dramatically. Because Sirius Black was the King of all Dramatics and I ought to have gotten used to that. "Well, I suppose you've twisted my arm, with all your pleading and those crup eyes!" Sirius pronounced to the room, grinning like a god damn loon. "I'll do it."

"Do what,"

"Stop it, stop it! Merlin, your _begging,_ it's so embarrassing, I can't _stand_ it."

"Why are you never upfront about things?" I asked no one in particular. "I think I prefer Iola."

"Don't be daft, I'm far prettier than Iola. _And_ I have a pulse, so I'm instantly better than her in every which way. But not my point." _Then get to it,_ I considered screaming at him. Sirius cleared his throat and stood up only to crawl back and force himself onto my chair. I ended up having to sit on the arm so he would stop squirming. "If I help you with the — whatever it is you are doing — will you go with me to annoy Dromeda?"

"Andy?"

"Do you know any other Dromeda?" He snarked.

Ignoring that, I spoke over him, "Why do you want to annoy her? She hasn't done anything wrong."

"I'm bored." Sirius answered, like that was a serious excuse.

I huffed. "No." Sirius then had the gall to look _surprised_ by my response. I heard myself explaining my reasons, an unprecedented thing that I had absolutely no control over. "She took me out for ice cream. I don't want her to end up regretting that."

"Ice cream?" Sirius looked like he was deciding whether this was worth breaking our truce over. He evidently came to a decision. "Never mind, don't care, I need you with me on this."

Well now.

"You're plenty annoying on your own, Siri."

"Yeah, but you're her little sister, so she'll go easy on me if you're there too! Big siblings are always soft on their little siblings, it's the law of things. You've never seen me snap at Reg, have you?"

"Er, yes. I have seen that. Plenty of times. I was also there when you swapped his hair potion with sticky sap solution, remember? You peed your pants laughing at him instead of helping. He was screaming the house down. Your mother had to take three headache potions."

Sirius let out a bark of laughter, eyes sparkling. "Merlin, I remember that. Good times though, right? Wasn't it fun? Don't you want to go back to those golden years? Relive our youth?"

"Not particularly."

"Well that's because you were born one hundred years old and as a statistical outlier, you should not be counted. But, like, pretend for a second that you're an actual human person, and that you aren't an Inferi incapable of fun, and then think of how great it'll be to annoy your older sister." I opened my mouth. Sirius shushed me. "No, stop. Don't speak. _Think. Think of how great it will be._ "

"Siri — "

" _Cal,_ "

I sighed. I paused. I thought.

… Actually, I didn't mind the idea at all.

Except: "Andy's scary when she's mad."

Sirius didn't miss a beat. "It's either Dromeda or Cissy. Pick your poison." Well.

When he put it that way…

"You'll help me with my homework?"

"Sure," Sirius shrugged, "It's not like it's _hard_ ," I sneered at him for that but I don't think it was that great a sneer since he didn't react. Or he had been expecting that type of reaction and was thus unmoved by it. Which was honestly kind of frustrating. Was I becoming predictable?

I dropped that line of conversation and brought up a secondary concern. "As great as it will be to have your help with this," I said, ignoring Sirius' laughter and the beginning of the smug comment that was coming out of his mouth, "I'll have to purposefully get some answers wrong otherwise Professor McGonagall will get suspicious."

Sirius gave me a look, one that said, _'You're not fooling anyone, Cal, there's no 'purposefully' about it,'_ because Sirius was a know-it-all asshole who didn't need to study and thought I needed frequent reminders of it. I flushed. Humiliating but expressive. Sirius was good at those looks.

"I don't think we'll have many problems there," He said.

I slugged him in the shoulder.

Sirius laughed at me. Again.

I really hadn't missed him at all.

.

...

Bonus #02

— _1970, Free Period, Greenhouse No. 7_

...

Professor Sprout liked to keep a steady stream of chatter going while she worked. Three semesters working as an extra pair of hands in the greenhouses during her free periods meant that Callidora had built up an immunity; more like a selective hearing, if anything. Sometimes Professor Sprout rambled on about the most irrelevant things and Callidora—well, she wasn't exactly known for her patience. Selective hearing was a necessity at this point.

But it was all worth it. Suffering through all the random comments about her students, all the anecdotes about some of the plants she kept with human personalities and their antics, plus the tale of that one time she taught her dancing daisies a professionally choreographed dance routine, all of it, was worth it.

Because sometimes — okay, pretty often, really — Professor Sprout said something _fascinating._

"It's important to keep a tidy workspace; and to label your foods and your harvests so you don't get them confused," she was saying, relocating plants from pots to soil with long-time familiarity. Callidora was clearing her work bench of the trowels and fertiliser, as she had been asked to.

"An old acquaintance of mine taught that to me."

(Like all conversations with Professor Sprout, however, finding the gold of the conversation often involved sifting through ten pages of dialogue tags.)

Callidora listened to her favourite Professor bustle around before softly clearing her throat. "Sounds like there is a story there, if you don't mind me saying, Professor,"

Professor Sprout hummed. "Indeed there is, though I'm afraid that it is not a humours story,"

"If there's a lesson to be learned…" Callidora replied, careful to keep her voice light and absently curious.

"Quite right, Miss Black, quite right. That said, it really is not the longest or cheeriest of stories. My friend simply confused his glass of milk with a beaker of weeping starlight sap. Just swallowed it all down, just like that." Professor Sprout twisted around and beckoned with her hand. "Pass me that over th—yes, that's a dear. Thank you."

"Welcome," Callidora settled back on the bench. She watched Professor Sprout pack some soil around the new plant and waited until she was suitably immersed. "What happened to him? Your friend?"

Professor Sprout made a bumbling noise and didn't respond for a minute, attention evidently focused elsewhere.

"Well, he died of kidney failure. It's the way of things, I suppose, though it _did_ stump the Auror's for however long it took them to consult with a Herbology expert. As I'm sure you're aware, weeping starlight sap doesn't show up in standard diagnostic spells."

Weeping starlight sap? That was advanced stuff.

Callidora's eyebrows ticked up.

"The body doesn't register the sap as bad, right?"

"That's right. I'm sure his history of alcoholism didn't help things along either." Professor Sprout stopped and sighed. Seemed to take a moment to silently pay her respects to the memory of her friend. "Still, however sad his fate, I learned from him." Sprout threw herself back into making the plant's new home was as comfortable as possible.

"Yeah?"

Sprout pursed her lips, gesturing for the watering can beside Callidora's hip. "He certainly taught me to never confuse what I _consume_ with what I _harvest_ from _toxic plants_." Sprout snorted and shook her head sharply. "My friend was a fool boy, always had been. I ought to have been watching him more carefully."

"… Do you miss him?"

"Every day." Sprout answered simply, and then did not speak much at all.

Callidora let her work in relative silence for a few minutes, but she didn't intend to let the subject matter drop. She pressed as soon as she felt she would not be yelled at for it. "I didn't know the sap you collected from the weeping starlight tree was that toxic. If it's so bad, why doesn't the human body consider it foreign?"

Sprout shot her a look — something nearly suspicious but altogether pleased, as if she liked being asked questions — before she dusted her gloves off on her pants and huffed. She put her hands on her hips and whirled to face Callidora, giving the eleven-year-old her full attention.

"It isn't usually, unless you happen to have weak kidneys, which my friend coincidentally did. Then it'll send you into an early grave quicker than you can say _'septenerant fletus stellis_ '." Sprout's voice had taken on a vaguely-lecturing tone, which was to be expected.

Callidora's eyes widened.

Sprout saw and made a clucking sound, waving her hand. "You have nothing to worry about at your age, Miss Black, I assure you. Your kidneys are safe from the sap should you accidentally consume it — though I would still be cautious." At that, Callidora sighed. Sprout looked slightly amused. "Painful way to die. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

"Of course, Professor. I'll be careful." Callidora hopped off the bench and walked towards the line of new potted plants. "Do you want the Pentapods or Giggleguffs, Professor?"

"The Giggleguffs, if you would, Miss Black — ah, thank you, dear. Would you like to assist me with this one? I believe you will find it quite simple."

"Oh, yes please."

"Good, good. Now, come closer, you need to look at the roots to understand the process a lot better…"

.

...

 **.**

 **…**

 **.**

...

Authors Note:

y'all: nothing happens this chapter?  
me: u right

Everyone in this chapter is so _angery._ NEXT CHAPTER IS A TIME SKIP TBH.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter! Made my little heart swell thrice its maximum size.


	8. you are born, you bleed, you burn

**Title:** fish hooks in the corners of their mouths

 **Summary:** "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]

 **Rating:** Tentative T (rating _definitely_ might have to change)

 **Disclaimer:** Disclaimed

 **Dedication:** This one goes out to **the usual three**. Y'all know who you are.

 **Warnings:** this is all angst not even sorry callidora is just one hundred percent angst

.

* * *

09.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _you are born, you bleed, you burn_

* * *

.

One ordinary winter night during our second year, Pandora once asked me:

"Do you ever wonder about death?"

I had hummed, faux-thoughtful. "Quite the question to ask over a game of Gobstones," Pandora didn't respond, an odd enough thing that I broke my concentration and looked up. She was staring into one of the flames of a nearby candle.

Strange.

"Well?" she prompted, "Do you?"

"Ever think about death?" I asked dryly.

Pandora didn't find much humour in my tone. "No, _wonder_ about death. I said wonder." She corrected, dipping the very tips of her finger into the melted wax, face flinching at the slight burning sensation.

"What's the difference?"

"There's plenty difference," Pandora gave me a little frown, "So?"

I placed my marbles down. "Why are you asking?"

Pandora once again looked annoyed with me. The expression passed over quickly, fortunately, and she returned to staring at the candle. She scratched her left arm. "I'm curious. Is that enough?"

My lips thinned. "It will have to be," I said, and sighed. I leaned back on my hands, lifting one to scratch the chin of a nearby tabby. _Do I ever wonder about death?_ I scoffed.

Too easy.

"No," I answered, eyes dark, "I don't wonder. Haven't for a long time."

Pandora looked at me. "How long?"

 _Twelve years._ "A while," I said shortly, "Why?"

"You first," Pandora said, eyes glinting with an edge I only saw when she was chasing after a mystery, "why don't you wonder about death? Aren't you afraid of it?"

The tabby cat crawled into my lap and started kneading my thighs, claws digging in fractionally. The small pains grounded me, kept me from gazing too far into the flames, from losing myself. "I never said I wasn't _afraid_ of it, I said that I never _wondered_ about it. My turn. Why are you suddenly curious about this topic?"

Pandora's eyebrows twitched. She answered quickly, "Because I've been thinking about death lately."

"That isn't an answer," I tried to tell her.

"My turn," Pandora intercepted, ignoring me altogether, "Why don't you wonder?"

I frowned again, heavier this time. "Wonder implies that I have a curiosity about the subject—I don't." _wonder, verb. meaning: desire to know something; feel curious._ "I know enough about death to determine that I don't want to die." Pandora looked perplexed. Half-knowledge had never been enough for her. "Why have you been thinking about death lately?"

Pandora—hesitated. "Tantalus." She replied, curt. My eyes widened. Before I could gather my wits, Pandora asked, "If there was a way for you to avoid death, would you take it?"

My nostrils flared. I heard in my ears his name, over and over, _Tantalus Tantalus Tantalus,_ and tasted bitter paste in the back of my throat. _Him._ I looked at Pandora carefully, noticing her odd fidgeting and the way she wouldn't meet my eyes. I asked, voice low, "What has he been telling you?"

Her swallow was audible. "You didn't answer my question," she tried, looking ashamed.

I snapped back, "The answer is _no,_ obviously! My turn. What has he been telling you?"

"It's not important—"

" _Pan,_ "

"I'm serious, Cal, I am! It's—he's just been saying things is all, you know how he is."

"Yes, I do," I stressed, frustrated with her, "that's why I'm worried about you: he plays mind games, Pan, _you_ know how he is! What has he been saying? Is he the reason you've been thinking about death?"

"Wondering," Pandora corrected immediately, flinching at her own words. "No, I mean—well, yes, he has been. He's said… said some things and they didn't make all-the-way sense—" implying, naturally, that they made _some_ sense, "—so I wanted a second opinion. An opinion that I could trust. That's why I was asking you."

I felt a throbbing behind my eyes. I sighed, told myself that it wasn't her fault, and tried to believe that I could believe that. I thought she had known better. "Pan," I started, stopping when I found that I had nothing to say to that. I breathed. I tried again. "Pan—what… what did he say to you?"

Pandora looked away. "… Nothing."

"Don't defend him."

"I'm _not._ I don't—I don't like him, why would I defend him?"

"Because as much as you don't like him, you still _love him,_ " I said, voice very even. Pandora flinched. "He's garbage. But you love him anyway, though he's done nothing to deserve it."

"People don't need to deserve to be loved," Pandora said, a faint grimace on her face.

I narrowed my eyes and told her, "No, people need to be worthy of it, which has about the same result for him at the end of the day. Or it should, if you weren't there. He's been talking to you about death? What kinds of things?"

Pandora stared at me. I stared back at her, raising my chin. It was a battle of wills, and I had every confidence that I would win. I was not disappointed: no longer than ten seconds of tense silence and Pandora was ducking her head, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Rubbish," she answered, voice barely above a mumble, "he's been telling me rubbish about it, is what he's been doing. The usual mania about how he knows a way to overcome death and how he could _show it to me_ if I played by his rules for a little while, or at least until I graduated. Rubbish, I told him, You can't beat death, everyone knows that. He thinks he can, though. Thinks that he and this other guy—a smarter, stronger, better one—figured out a way to do it. Wanted to show me how to do it under a few conditions."

"What were the conditions?"

Pandora frowned. "I didn't let him talk long enough to hear them. I told him that I would think about it."

"How long ago was that?"

Pandora looked away. "A while," she muttered. My lips pressed together. She sighed, shoulders slumping. "I knew you wouldn't like it. That's why I didn't mention it to you, I knew you wouldn't like it. You're always so mean when it comes to Tantalus—you never give him a shot—"

"Because he doesn't _deserve_ _one_ ," I interrupted, bitingly cold. She winced, chanced a glance at my face, and immediately turned away at whatever she saw. I didn't feel very forgiving. I was guessing that was displayed on my face. We sat in silence for a minute or two. I was carding my fingers through the tabby's striped fur, thinking. "Did you ask Xeno his opinion on this?"

Pandora looked mildly surprised, "I… wanted to…"

"You should," I said softly, but not kindly. "He's objective. You'll at least listen to him."

Something broke on Pandora's face at my, admittedly, unfairly hostile tone. Her shoulders hunched. She said, "Cal, come on… he's my brother, what was I supposed to do? Turn him away at the door? Refuse to speak with him? We live in the same house!"

"Your mother—" I began tersely, before snapping out a harsh breath and physically turning away from her, "oh, it's no use. You'll always give in to him, and I'll always be here to tell you not to do it again because he _hurts_ you, and you'll promise you won't, and you'll _do it anyway._ I'm too tired for the byplay, Pan. I really am."

"… Cal, you don't mean that—"

"I'm _tired,_ " I interrupted, holding the cat and standing up, neatly depositing it on the couch. The tabby made a chattering noise at me and leaped back onto the floor, twisting in between my legs. "I'm sorry, Pan, but I just—can't, right now, okay? I'm sorry."

"What do you mean, _you can't?_ " her voice broke on the last word. She stood up and stepped in front of me when I went for the stairs, "Cal, you're the only one who—who knows what he's like, Xeno can't help like you do—"

"Pandora," I said, and Pandora stopped, eyes wide. Softer, "after I've slept. After I've rested. For now, I'm too…"

"… tired, yeah, you said," she said flatly, stepping out of the way. She turned away from me, body language insecure. "Whatever. Leave then. And you know what" — she sucked in a deep breath, fists clenching at her sides — "I think you're being very unfair right now. _Selfish._ I, I do a lot for you, you know? _I do_. Like last year, when you just, you just stopped functioning, I dealt with that. I didn't complain. I just smiled and pretended to be okay because you weren't and you needed someone to be. But now it's Tantalus and _you_ can't even — _no._ It's unfair, Cal. It's unfair. You should… you should be better than that. For me, you should be better than that."

Pandora took a deep breath to replenish the air she lost.

I opened my mouth.

…

I closed my mouth.

Inhalation. Exhalation. Inhalation. Exhalation.

There was a soft meow somewhere behind me.

I whispered, "Yes, you're right. I am. I'm sorry."

Pandora blinked like she'd been stunned.

"… but I'm still too tired to deal with him, Pan."

She no longer looked as stunned; angrier, certainly, but less stunned.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes, "I'll be nicer in the morning once I've had my sleep." I told her.

Pandora sneered and said, "Not good enough, Cal," and stomped upstairs before I did. I watched her go, even waited a few minutes so she could get changed and be in bed before I arrived, giving her that courtesy if nothing else. A cat meowed; the tabby from before. I scratched it behind the ears, keeping track of time by one of the candles.

When enough time had passed, I tromped upstairs, took a brisk shower, and crawled under my covers.

Sleep did not come easy that night.

I did not want it to.

.

* * *

.

Was I too harsh? Undoubtedly. Did I regret it? No.

Should I?

… Probably.

Before anyone freaks, yes, the conflict _was_ resolved after a bit of back and forth. It took a fighting effort for each of us to forgive each other, and things were strange long afterwards, but resolved is resolved is resolved.

We really weren't fighting by the end of it, although Tantalus was not mentioned to me again; I'm not sure I like this. As much as I dislike him, I would prefer to stay informed of his machinations, but it's clear that Pandora isn't willing to share news that she knows distresses me. I have to rely on Xenophilius' perception and empathy for help keep my best friend's head above water, which doesn't _distress_ me, per se, as I _do_ trust Xenophilius, at least somewhat.

I would just… prefer to watch. Supervise. So that I could step in and make sure Xenophilius didn't push too hard in certain areas or let Pandora pull something over him.

Except, the role of confidant is quickly no longer becoming my place.

I can't supervise, as if Xenophilius and Pandora are unruly children to be policed, and I don't want to do something that will condescend them in the first place. It's never been my intention to undermine their autonomy. The fact is, however, that as insubstantial as our mental age difference may _seem,_ it is a maturity difference nonetheless.

I suppose you could say that I was concerned. I suppose you could say that I was approaching the situation the wrong way. I suppose there were a lot of things that could be said—it's just a matter of whether or not I would listen. (Spoiler alert: I would not.) I've never been a graceful recipient of constructive criticism, I suspect my unfortunate family genes, so really, save your breath.

It all turned out all right in the end. The ends, as they say, justify the means.

So what if my second year in Hogwarts ends on a tentatively warm note, instead of a sure-as-the-sunrise happy one? I don't have anyone to point fingers at. Pandora was a twelve year old being manipulated by her garbage older brother and father, she was compromised. Xenophilius had been with us for two years and still needed to get used to positive interpersonal relationships. Alice could not be expected to deal with our personal drama when she was branching out a befriending students from other houses; if it were to be anyone's responsibility, it was mine, and my biology often conflicted with my mind. I made mistakes, same as anyone else.

I also had regrets.

And returning to a frigid home with no memories to cling to during my lowest moments—well, I guess it could count as one of them.

.

* * *

.

Things get hard again. I probably deserve it, this time. I don't complain much about it this time. Punishment, I think, feeling that numbness settle into me, For my behaviour as of late.

I remember:

Sitting at the dinner table with parents who hate me and running my finger along the edge of my steak knife; wondering how much pressure I would need to apply before I could spill my blood all over this pristine white table cloth.

How everyone else would react: if Narcissa would care, if she was scramble for a hanky and press it against my bleeding finger, if my mother would gasp and looked horrified by my willingness to hurt myself, if my father would keep a careful eye on me, not out of wariness, but out of concern for my well-being.

I almost do it. The steak was unappetizing, the mash potatoes sat in the back of my throat, and I was nearly gagging on the taste of gravy. Pain was not appealing to me, I did not find the same belonging in the burn of a cut as I did in the burn of consuming anger, so I couldn't say that masochism was the root behind this desire. I was just sick of not being _seen_ , and I could not figure out a single solution to my own undesirability that _didn't_ include my own mutilation.

I remember:

A voice. In my head. A cackling, crooning, low, siren-song of a voice in my head. It sounded a lot like Bellatrix. But then, it also sounded a lot like me.

It said, _A little pinprick? You think they'll care if you get an inconsequent papercut on your finger?_

Another voice. My voice, this time, with its American-sounding consonants and Spanish-rolling vowels.

 _Why wouldn't they care? We're family. I would care if Cissy deliberately hurt herself._

 _Would you?_ The voice shot back, mocking, _Do you truly have so big an opinion of yourself? Is this how far your self-delusion can stretch itself?_

I was cowed. _Fine, so I wouldn't care if it was a papercut. What does that matter?_

 _Go bigger._ The voice replies, a soft pur. _Think_ _bigger. What_ _would_ _they care about, if not a papercut?_

 _I could slice my palm?_

 _Better. Not quite._

 _I could… I could, slice my wrists?_

 _Well, now_ _there's_ _an idea. Which way? Horizontal or vertically?_

 _I'm not_ — _I'm not killing myself. Not for them._

 _Mmm, you won't even think about it?_

 _No._

 _Are you sure?_

 _ **Yes.**_

… _It would be a waste of your time anyway. Even if the deed_ _did_ _stick—and it might not, why would it? It didn't the first time—can you honestly tell yourself that they'd care? That you could take your own life and you would be_ _mourned_ _? How certain are you? Can you tell me? How certain are you that you would be_ _missed_ _?_

My finger pushes down.

The spell breaks with the sound of Mother clearing her throat. Horrified with myself, I mentally wrestle the voice into a dark box where it will not escape again (at least, until it inevitably escapes again, which it will, because it always has). I tune back into the real world, where the real voices are coming from. Mother was in the middle of asking after Narcissa's relationship with her betrothed. I have already dropped the steak knife like it's burned me by then.

Narcissa is the only one at the table to give the _knife_ a cursory look, but otherwise.

No reaction.

I remember:

My family does not love me.

.

* * *

.

Things get easier, as they always do, but the pressure was suffocating before salvation arrived, and I do not forget the beginning: the asphyxiation of my own unimportance.

You see, things—they get easier, they do, but I have since learned that they never _do_ without a bit of self-sacrifice.

(One day, I will move to chip away another part of myself and realise that there is nothing left for me to give: I will retain my weak skin and bones and have only a sink-hole of a soul to speak of.)

.

* * *

.

And in the middle of my teenage angsting, so began my horrible terrible, very bad, no good weekend.

.

* * *

.

For as long as she can remember, Narcissa has always liked touch.

Bellatrix knew this, had been the first to find out that a hand on her shoulder or the back of her neck could make Narcissa pur like a cat. Before the darker times — _the present, Cissy, it's the present, the now, stop trying to deny that_ — the two sisters used to sit side-by-side in her bed, Bellatrix's hand gently stroking through Narcissa's hair as she revised her lessons out loud. There was comfort in touch; a communication that went beyond words, one that narrowed down to the warmth of another.

That was what touch was to Narcissa: a knowing.

(mother is screaming at father. narcissa is huddled between andy and bella, trembling, because father looks prepared to leave and that means new targets, _smaller targets_ , ones that don't have the authority to walk away from mother and her wine-stained teeth and her _violence_. she waits for those eyes to finally land on her, to peel her flesh from her bones, to strip her of her dignity, when—

a hand, soft and warm, sliding across her shoulders and settling at her nape. narcissa looks up, follows the hand to its arm to its body, sees bella square-jawed and dark-eyed, prepared to go to war. not a second later: a hand holding hers in a crushing grip. andy is staring at her, chin shaking, eyes glassy, and a set to her shoulder that _dares_ mother to turn her gaze to narcissa, and it's, it's, _it's_ —

narcissa is not so afraid anymore)

Her betrothed, the Malfoy boy, has no idea of Narcissa's inclinations. He'd have to touch her first, and even should such an unlikely scenario come about, Narcissa is well-versed in pretending that she has no feelings one way or the other about touch. The enjoyment of touch goes hand in hand with how much Narcissa _trusts_ that person, and she does not trust her betrothed enough to give him that part of her, if she trusts him at all.

As Narcissa said… Bellatrix knows (has _always_ known) but _more importantly_ , Bellatrix _remembers._

Whenever she stops by the manor, she greets Narcissa with a brief, warm hug, and lingers close even after they've parted, usually by winding her arm through Narcissa's. It's such a small thing but Narcissa loves her for it, she can't help it. Bellatrix is a familiar warmth to Narcissa. She almost hates herself for melting into it every time, but she cannot stop her heart from loving her sister, as much as she wishes she could. It feels like an unthinking betrayal: to want to hate the one sister she is sure must love her (after all, _she remembers)_ , but these are dark times.

Narcissa knows which way the wind is blowing.

It would be easier for her to hate Bellatrix, never mind that she never would.

And though by the time of Callidora's birth, she had reigned in her reactions — part in consideration of her public appearances and how unsightly it would be for her cling too hard to a hand bidding her welcome, part in fear of her father finding out — Narcissa is sure that the little troll is aware of it. Her little sister is smart, and much more perceptive than even Narcissa gives her credit for, though… not very cunning. She never has been. After all, if she had been born with even a morsel of the cunning Narcissa was gifted with, Callidora wouldn't have let herself be sorted into Ravenclaw.

Thing is, Callidora _must_ know, because Callidora does not like to be touched, but will occasionally ( _used to, at least)_ allow Narcissa to brush and braid her hair. Callidora is bored by it, nearly falls asleep, if she is not already daydreaming, and it's obvious that the only one pleased with the event is Narcissa.

(she enjoys carding her fingers through her little sister's curly hair, soaking in the knowledge that all of them, yes, all of them, somehow somehow somehow somehow all of them were _here_ despite the world the universe their parents _despite everything_ that wanted them _not to be_ —)

Andromeda, soft and gentle Andromeda, knows. She is the only one who does not indulge Narcissa.

On her bad days, Narcissa considers resenting Andromeda for this, for denying her her small comforts, the innocent and physical sensation of a sister who she trusts in this warzone of a house, but ultimately turns away from that decision. She has Bellatrix and Callidora to entertain her when she is at home, and Zabini when she is elsewhere, and Narcissa will not ask Andromeda to comfort her if it means Andromeda would be sacrificing her own comfort.

Because Andromeda, for as long as Narcissa can remember, has always been absolutely _repulsed_ by the touch of other humans.

The reason is their parents. Specifically, their mother. Druella has always been a fan of touch herself, though the root of it is much more malicious than Narcissa's. Where Narcissa simply likes to be had and to be held, her mother likes to sink her claws into flesh, likes to feel the give of a fragile being under her own hands, enjoys knowing that it is _her_ touch that could tear a person down from their foundations.

Druella is the reason Andromeda hates to be touched. You see, Druella Black doesn't like any of her children, but for some reason, she has always hated Andromeda the most.

Andromeda is the one Druella spits her poison at the most. Andromeda is the one who has always been at the receiving end of Druella's ringed hands the most. Andromeda is the one most familiar with their mother's physical abuse, and Andromeda is the one of their four most damaged by it.

(that's only accounting for mother's abuse. if they were counting which child suffered the most from _father,_ it would undoubtedly be callidora. for some reason, narcissa and bellatrix had always been the—certainly not the _favourites_ , none of them are _favourites_ , but narcissa and bellatrix _are_ hated the _least_ , and that's the closest to salvation they could ever hope to gaze upon in this family)

Narcissa loves touch.

But that doesn't mean she does not understand why Andromeda hates it.

Especially as she watches her sister's head being slammed against the wall.

If anything, Narcissa is wondering how she could ever think another's hands to be _gentle_ after watching her mother's deliver such _violent_ justice with them.

Andromeda is spewing profanities and colourful insults, meeting Druella word-for-shouted-word, and Narcissa feels no shame in turning on her high heels and fleeing upstairs. An entire floor up and she can hear her family's argument as if she were right next to it. Narcissa spares a second to wonder how on earth Callidora _isn't_ hearing this, when she remembers the wards, and is so sharply proud of her sister's paranoia that she's barely even annoyed.

And then something smashes.

Gravity reasserts itself. Narcissa remembers to be aggravated. She slams her fist inelegantly against Callidora's boring brown door.

"What?" an annoyed voice rumbles through the door. Narcissa can imagine what Callidora is doing: probably hunched over some plant, maybe a fern?, with a dorky magnifying glass and her left hand scribbling ineligible notes about how unusually green this plant is when all plants look the same in the first place. "Seriously, what do you want? I'm trying to do something here—"

"Dora, I need you downstairs," Narcissa cuts off. Once Callidora starts, it's difficult to stop her. Narcissa continues without waiting for a reply, having hoped that the use of the nickname would stall Callidora enough for her to get out what she needed to say, "It's Mother, she's—her and Andy are fighting, it's bad, worse than their usual, so I need you down here because I think Andy is going to do something stupid and you can talk her out of that."

"Worse than their usual?" asks her little sister, and she sounds like she's right in front of the door now, "What did Andy do?"

Here, Narcissa swallows. Breathes in deeply. Tries not to sound _too_ sickened because it might inspire Callidora—soft and gentle, like Andy, but in a different way, a Callidora way—to stop listening out of spite. She says, "Andy has taken a lover outside of her betrothal contract,"

Callidora is silent. Waiting. Unknowing.

"… he's a _mudblood_ ," says Narcissa, finally, and there!

— _there it is_ —

She hears Callidora's sharp intake of breath even through the door, no doubt a result of her sensitive audio wards ( _such a smart little sister she has, a pretty swallow-boned thing, Narcissa wishes the whispers in her head would stop telling her that she was assured to die when the storm finally hit_ ), and then the door is being thrown open.

Narcissa stares her little sister in the eye for the first time in two years.

Sidelong glances and subtle stares from across the hall had not prepared Narcissa for the sheer amount of _love_ and _regret_ and _**fear**_ that would crash into her when she looked into her baby sister's tired blue eyes. Her hands shook with it; Narcissa had almost forgotten what Callidora's face looked like up close, careful as she was to not be caught associating with her.

Two years, Narcissa's heart thrummed, It's been two years since you have acknowledged her.

The way Callidora's shoulders tensed suggested that she agreed with the insidious voice in Narcissa's head. There is no trust in the eyes that look upon Narcissa.

It is better this way. Safer for the both of them. Narcissa could not do with a lingering connection with her blood traitor little sister, and Callidora needed to be accepted and trusted if she wanted to survive the arrival of the storm, which could not be achieved if she still openly loved Narcissa.

It is safer for the both of them.

(it hurts in a similar way to aunt walburga's cruciatus curse, only _worse_ , because it isn't that white-hot pain spread evenly across narcissa's body, delivering equal torture to all of her—this, it is a concentrated ache, the bone-tiredness of an old man struggling to roll out of bed because the cold has sunk past his bones and into his soul, it is as if her heart could be touch-starved for the feeling of callidora's indulgence, for the thrum of a sister's love)

Callidora is close enough to touch.

Narcissa keeps her shaking hands at her side, and reminds herself that she does not have the right. Not anymore.

There is a heavy, tell-tale thunk downstairs, followed by a sharp silence that makes the hairs at the back of Narcissa's neck stand up. Callidora books it downstairs before the tension between them can rise. Narcissa feels simultaneously robbed and thankful for it, and swiftly follows after her, arriving at the scene barely a second after Callidora does.

Mother is curled up on the floor with her hand to her stomach and nose, mouth open in shock even as she moans out in pain. Andromeda is only standing by the grace of the wall, hunched over her knees, wheezing like she's struggling to take in air, face sweaty and pale. Narcissa is suddenly struck by how old her sister looks: twenty years old, a faded smattering of freckles across her nose from her summers at the Steinfield's, with grey hairs and a scar along her jawline from when Mother's sharpened nails dug in just a bit too deep.

Narcissa is struck by how ancient and weathered her beautiful sister is.

Inexplicably, she feels ashamed.

(there are no grey hairs in her blonde locks, nor does she have any scars, nor freckles, nor any blemishes at all. narcissa is a porcelain doll, a trophy wife, a beautiful flower in a vase, cut off from its root, destined to die, but attractive until the end. andromeda is an old ragdoll: beaten, broken, dirty, washed out.

she has always deserved better.)

Callidora's sharp eyes have processed the scene and drawn conclusions as to what has happened before Narcissa can swallow down her emotions. She swoops forward and, without hesitation, throws her arms around Andromeda's neck, pushing herself against her side. She begins whispering something, Narcissa is too far away to hear, but whatever it is makes Andromeda's eyes water and water and water and water until she is finally _crying._

Narcissa is not sure Callidora is helping very well.

"I can't," she is whispering, "I'm sorry, I can't, I can't, Dora forgive me but I can't,"

"You promised," Callidora says, and it isn't quite a hiss yet, "you promised me, Andy, you promised me you wouldn't be like the rest,"

"I know," Andromeda moans, hiccupping, and Mother is drunkenly staggering to her feet, and then drunkenly staggering away from her daughters to collapse onto the nearest armchair to nurse her head. Narcissa is caught between slinking closer to her sisters or slinking closer to her mother. "I know I told you I wouldn't, but Dora I can't keep that promise, I can't,"

"But," says Callidora, and this isn't quite a hiss either, whatever it is in her voice, it echoes, just like the sound of a glass bottle shattering in an abandoned alleyway — sound travelling through an empty vessel, "but you _promised_ ," and Merlin, but Narcissa could cut herself on the betrayal in Callidora's voice.

(already has, technically)

It was definitely a bad idea to get Callidora down here.

It usually isn't.

But this time, it really, _really_ was.

Andromeda straightens up from her hunched position and twists around to wrap her arms around Callidora—a familiar bitterness rises in Narcissa at the sight, an emotion that she gently shushes until it is asleep once more. Callidora jerks backwards before Andromeda can envelope her, and at that blatant rejection, their older sister's face shatters.

"I'm sorry," Andromeda says, beaten. Callidora does something with her face, something deeply emotional and _hurt,_ but she shuts it down too quickly for Narcissa to properly dissect. "I—you know that if I had any other—Dora, please understand. From the beginning, until the end, remember? Always and—"

" _No._ "

And _that, that_ is what Callidora _hissing_ sounds like.

Andromeda covers her face with her hands and Callidora takes another step backwards, and then another, and then another, until she is closer to Narcissa than she is to anyone else. It probably says something about how she feels about everyone else in the room if she's preferring _Narcissa._

Callidora stares at Andromeda blankly, fingers curling and uncurling, like she wants to clench something in her hands. Then she freezes, unnaturally still, and turns slowly slowly slowly on her heels like a needle pointing north.

Druella is north.

"You," Callidora begins, then appears to cut herself off because she's shaking so hard her voice isn't coming out steady at all. Mother looks up, still woozy, cradling her own cheek. It Is beginning to bruise. Andromeda must have hit her to get out of their mother's grip. Narcissa feels a sharp swell of satisfaction at the thought.

"G…get out of my _sight,_ " Druella slurs, pained, "All of you, _filthy children,_ disgraceful, worthless, _get out of my sight,_ "

"You," Callidora starts again. She stops. She curls her lips back from her teeth and spits, oddly enough —

" _pinche puta_ ,"

— something that is definitely not English? Narcissa spares a moment to gape as Callidora storms up to their dazed mother and shouts some colourful sounding not-English at her.

 _(what even—)_

Getting over her shock — temporarily, — Narcissa finally breaks away to go for Andromeda. She hesitates in front of her (is she taller than andromeda now? has she truly not noticed?) but puts aside thoughts of comfort and gets an arm around her waist, helping Andromeda out of the room.

Andromeda is _sobbing._

"What do you need?" Narcissa asks lowly. She hates this helplessness. She hates this family. She hates a lot of things.

"A trunk," Andromeda says. Maybe. She's sobbing, so Narcissa has to pick out key words and freeball with them. "A trunk, clothes, I need to—I need to, to pack, and an owl, Dorado knows, where is he? Cissy, I—I'm sorry, but I can't, I've upset her, haven't I? Terribly. She's never going to forgive me."

Narcissa has a feeling they're not talking about Mother.

"Dora will forgive you for whatever transgression you think you have done," Narcissa assures her as she carries them both up the stairs, heading for Andromeda's room, "She always forgives you."

She perhaps sounds too bitter about it.

"Not for this," Andromeda whispers, "Not for this."

"And what makes this any different from any other argument you've had?"

Andromeda suddenly gets _too_ heavy for a moment, forgetting to hold her own weight, and they both stumble, almost fall right over the banister. Andromeda mutters out something that sounds like the start of an apology, and then she's blubbering again, so Narcissa doesn't get the entirety of it. What she is blubbering sound something like, "I promised her I wouldn't leave her alone,"

"Dora?" Narcissa opens the door to Andromeda's room, dumps her sister on her bed, and locks the door behind her. What Andromeda's said sinks in. Narcissa whips around, eyes wide. "Wait, are you _leaving?_ "

Andromeda looks heart-broken all over again. "Cissy, I'm sorry, but I have to," She whispers, _pleads_ , almost, and Narcissa is so shaken by betrayal that she. _can't._ right now. "I can't stay here, I think I might die if I do, I can't be around her another minute,"

"She—Mother won't kill you, she wouldn't ever kill you," Narcissa says, vaguely. She feels a bit hollow. "You can't leave."

"It's not her, it isn't her, Merlin I'm sorry but it isn't her," says Andromeda, and Narcissa's heart does a fearful stutter, because if not mother or father or her or dora or bella or kritter then who—

Forget 'fearful stutter'.

Narcissa's heart is beating at _all._

She wishes she could hug Andromeda. She wishes it more than she's wished for anything.

But she is not Dora, and Andromeda is still Andromeda, and Narcissa cannot touch her.

"I can't _stay,_ "

"You can't _leave,_ "

"I need to,"

"I," she says, and means it, "I," she says, and she means it, she feels the _weight_ of that word, of herself and her wants and desires and feels the _soul_ of that word and she _means it,_ and that's the _thing_ —she _can't,_ there is too much of her, she is too heavy a burden for Andromeda's tired shoulders, so she instead says, "Dora," because that is _safer,_ "needs you to stay."

"Dora has you," Andromeda says. Wobbly. Uncertain.

Oh.

She knows.

It hurts, unexpectedly so. It makes sense in the cruellest way that she knows that Callidora doesn't trust Narcissa anymore, Callidora talks with Andromeda more than she talks with Sirius, so of course she knows, but it hurts anyway. Narcissa doesn't know why.

(—of course she knows why narcissa always knows it's as much as a curse as it is a gift—)

Narcissa curls her fingers into fists and says, "Dora does not know that she has me," and there, a glimpse of interest, a spark of hope, and Narcissa hates the instant thrum of validation that comes with Andromeda's approval, "She needs you here with her,"

Andromeda pauses.

Narcissa doesn't dare to hope. She never does these days.

"… I'm so sorry, Cissy."

And for good reason, too.

Narcissa purses her lips. "Right," She sniffs, pretends she doesn't feel like she's swallowing glass. She pushes aside the grief and clings on those last vestiges of rage, because they'll get her through this, whatever it is. "And what about us? Will you abandon me and Dora to that dreadful woman without looking back? Is this farewell forever, dear sister? Are you closing this chapter of your life and moving on?"

"No," Andromeda says, horrified, "No, god, Cissy, _never_ —"

"You say that," Narcissa speaks over her, lip trembling, "but you're leaving, aren't you? _Aren't you_?"

Andromeda looks so hurt and Narcissa almost wishes she could feel sorry for her part in putting that expression on her face but damn it, Narcissa has wasted enough wishes on this family, on their well-being and their wants and desires and their _comfort,_ and she needs someone to do the same for her for _once_ in her life. For once, she wants to be _thought_ about, _wished_ for. She wants to be the exception to Andromeda's anti-touch sentiments, she wants to be the sister Callidora turns to, she wants to be the oncoming storm and she wants to be a leader and she wants the _spotlight,_ she wants to be _acknowledged_ —

She flees, leaving Andromeda mid-sentence, and tells herself to stop being such an _idiot._

 _You are the serpent under the flower,_ she reminds herself, _you are waiting, seething, blooming. You are the one they never see coming. Embrace that you are overlooked, emphasise other's underestimation of your character, their mistake is your victory, remember?_

It is hard. It is hard to remember that she needs to be underestimated when she wants to be loved the most by all of her sisters, when she wants to be selfish, but—but.

The long game.

She is playing the long game.

Narcissa will retreat and lick her wounds and she will scorn Andromeda as if she has never loved her, she will continue to hate mudbloods and filthy muggles, she will pretend that all that concerns her in this rotten world is the latest fashions and the most flattering hair styles and she will flirt with her betrothed despite the lover she has on the side and she will pretend, pretend, pretend, and she will be overlooked and she will _survive_ and she will—

She will—

Will, will, will—

Narcissa nearly runs into Callidora when she storms out of the room. She freezes in the middle of wiping the tears from her face, prepared to say something cutting to distract from the scene she is making, but Callidora doesn't give her the space to reclaim her dignity. She stares Narcissa front on, expression icy and miraculously free of tears, and Merlin, her thirteen year old sister could be carved of marble right then.

Narcissa fractures once more.

(always a little more innocence left to lose)

Callidora's eyes finally leave Narcissa, and then she's storming into Andromeda's room.

Narcissa can imagine the snarl already, and almost laughs, because out of _all_ of them, she had least expected _Callidora_ to resemble Bella the most. Not Callidora, with her plants and her wards and her tender smiles. But then also: _of course_ Callidora, with her sharp eyes and crystalline skin and untamed spirit. With her steel spine and her tightly-leashed sanity and that implacable clenching-unclenching of her fist, that implacable Black anger thinly wrapped in earth-stained skin.

Of course.

It should have been obvious from the very start who Callidora was going to take after. Not gentle Andromeda, not cunning Narcissa, but the oldest, their feral Bellatrix.

Of course.

Narcissa retreats into her room and covers her face and tries not to sob or laugh or make any sound at all.

Of course.

Everything is falling apart. She could not stop it at all, and she had never convinced herself that she could. There were more things in play than she was aware of: all Narcissa had ever been doing was ensuring that she would survive the passing of the storm, that she would weather these harsh elements. She even went one step further and did her best to ensure her loved ones would live to see the sunrise, too.

Perhaps that was too ambitious of her.

Of course.

Narcissa's resolve crumbles (finally, finally, finally, it has been wanting to do this for a while now, ever since Callidora got herself sorted into the house of eagles and Narcissa realized for the first time that getting them all out of this alive wasn't going to be as easy as she had hoped). It is not the first time Narcissa's mind has cracked and she has lot herself to panic and tears and fear, deep, heart-felt, soul-shaking _fear,_ but this time—

This time, Narcissa is not sure she can at least spare Callidora the pain of it.

(of course she can't—because callidora wouldn't want her to in the first place. not truly.)

.

* * *

.

 _[_ July, 1972, _Untitled #253,_ excerpt from unnamed journal (presumed personal diary) belonging toBlack, Callidora III:]

—' _She left.'_

.

* * *

.

The summer of 1972, _after_ Sirius returned from the Potter home, he was over almost every night.

Since Regulus' sorting into Slytherin, a rift was growing between the brothers, Sirius citing that he could hardly have a conversation with the younger one without gagging. Slytherin had done to Regulus what Sirius had feared it would do to him, and neither were taking it well.

Apparently, I was a better option than Regulus.

I had been resigned to that. Besides the point, I also preferred Sirius' repellent company to Narcissa's, so it was a mutually beneficial relationship. Almost amiable, if not for the fiery passion of my hate for him, and the knowledge that it was most certainly requited. We got along as well as two eternal rivals _could_ get along, and the holidays weren't so terrible with Sirius Black at my side.

And then I had my heart ripped out and thrown into oncoming traffic.

I was not amiable company after… after that.

But Sirius was doggedly determined, and my own depression could not keep him at bay. He never left me alone.

It irritated me, honestly. I just wanted to be alone (like how she _left me_ ) but Sirius was denying me this comfort. He would shove my letters onto me and badger me until I snapped and wrote a reply, would eat his lunch in my rooms as if to share his appetite with me through osmosis, and was being a general nuisance in my life.

I was irritated.

I was a lot of things. A lot of negative things, mostly. My Sirius-things were the less detrimental to my health, at least, so there was that.

(What I am not, is this: waking, choking, arms spread across the bed as my fingers search for a familiar warmth which has never graced my bed before, _she is not here, she left._ What I am not, is this: yearning for yet another person to abandon me when I need their company the most.

What I _am,_ is this: unashamedly selfish, and unabashedly _hurt._ )

I ended up spending half my waking hours hiding from him instead of wallowing. Not that I don't find time to wallow, but Sirius made it difficult. I did not appreciate it. I needed to brood, to stew, to sit in a dark corner and wonder wonder _wonder, why did she leave when she promised it was the one thing she would never do to me why did she lie like that_ —

And just before I could sink into that repulsivereachingbeckoning darkness, the door to the study slammed open, and I returned to my body with a startle and the sound of my traitorous, foolish heart pounding in my ears. My head hurt. My mouth was dry. My stomach was caving in on itself. I refused to listen to the demands of my body: it did not deserve mercy, not after the mess it got us into by convincing itself that Andromeda could be trus—

 _don't be fucking selfish, she needed to leave_ —

 _did she have to go_ _ **without me**_ —

"You need to eat," Sirius told me without much fanfare, barging into my room like he had a warrant for it. My hands twitched. He began to list things off his fingers, and I pretended that I didn't want to break them. "And drink. And sleep."

"I have been doing all of those things," I said, eyes on my book as I took short-hand notes with my quill (it was becoming second nature to remove my mind from my body and let myself move without thinking: it was becoming easier), "though I am not certain what explanation could possibly be good enough to justify your presence here."

Sirius swept a hand towards the line-up of plates near me: all whole-wheat sandwiches missing their crust. And tomatoes. Nothing more, though. " _Sandwiches_ can't sustain a teenage witch, Cal, no matter what you seem to think. It isn't a diet that works, I'm sorry," I made a dismissive noise. "Why don't you ask Kritter for a whole tomato and spare her the task of preparing an entire meal that you won't eat?" He tried.

"You don't think I've asked?" If I had the room for it, I would be offended that he'd thought otherwise. "I've asked. Kritter simply isn't interested. I think she likes to fool herself into thinking that I might eventually eat something."

"Are you admitting that you _aren't_ eating?"

I huffed. "I _am_ eating,"

"Fine. Then you're just not eating _well_ ,"

"I'll give you that," I muttered, scribbling something out, "If that's all, you can leave. Unless there was something you needed to talk about…?"

"Yeah, actually, there is," Sirius scoffed, flicking his hair from his face, "I wanted to talk about your slow transition into a dirty touch-starved hermit! You've been holed up in here for _days,_ Aunt Droogie is becoming _concerned_ about your well-being. What could you possibly be doing that is so important?"

Mother? Becoming concerned for my well-being?

Ha.

He wasn't even _trying,_ was he?

I looked up. Sirius stood in the doorway, one hand in his hair and the other holding a glass of water that I presumed belonged to me. He looked well-rested and very tanned. It occurred to me that he must have returned from his _second_ , day-long-maybe-two-maybe-three-day-long jaunt to the Potter's, and that I wasn't sure when, exactly, that was. I considered asking. Out of lack of any real interest, however, I did not.

"I've left the room."

"Uh huh. When was the last time you saw the sun?"

"Not very long ago." I replied.

Sirius raised his eyebrows. Looked at me pointedly. Scratched his nose. Said, "Yeah?" in a dubious voice that had my lips pulling back in a snarl instinctively. I stopped scratching my nose, wishing that I knew when I started. Sirius approached, handing me the glass. "At least drink something. If Andy were here, she'd—"

He cut himself off.

It saved me the trouble of doing it myself, at least.

My fingers tightened around the glass. The muscles of my hand ached from holding the quill too long, and my wrist sort of burned in a way that indicated I had been using it too much. Sirius' nose crinkled, countenance awkward and something akin to apologetic.

"Ah, shit. Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No." I interrupted harshly, mouth thin. "Don't apologize. It isn't your fault that she… that she went off and…" I breathed. "It isn't your fault."

Sirius' eyes averted. He shrugged and went, "Alright, if you say so…"

"I do," I snapped, nostrils flaring, squeezing the glass in my hands so hard I thought for sure that it would shatter, "I do say so. You've done nothing wrong. You shouldn't have to tiptoe on eggshells around me just because—because she's… you shouldn't have to,"

Sirius grimaced. Sighed. "Look… I know this is—"

"No," I interrupted. Again. "No, you really don't. But that's. Okay. It's fine. I don't want you to understand."

"But I feel bad—"

"If you feel that bad, then the only thing you can do to make up for it is to leave me alone," I said, returning my attention to my books. "Thank you for the water. Sorry I'm being an arse. Please leave."

"… I don't think that's a good idea," Sirius said, eyebrows furrowing, but there was hesitance in his eyes. He couldn't deal with this situation—didn't have the first clue how to approach it—and he obviously wanted to leave, but wouldn't if it meant that he was abandoning me. I could have laughed. A thirteen year old could not deal with this: he shouldn't think me his responsibility in the first place.

"I'll be fine. If things get bad—I'll go to you for company. Can you trust that?"

Sirius looked at me for a long moment, before slowly dipping his head. "Drink," He said, pointing at my glass. "I'll, er, send Kritter up with another sandwich. Eat that too. All of it, too, not just the crust and tomatoes."

"They're the best part of the sandwich but okay,"

Sirius blinked, nodded again, and walked out of the room in a daze, looking much like he was arguing with himself. I watched the door until I could no longer hear his footsteps. Once I was sure he was gone, I returned to my book, immersing myself so deeper in the pages until that point where I could no longer hear my own heartbeat in my ears.

…

.

 _Does it hurt?_

— _Yes._

 _Oh, I hadn't known. How often?_

— _Always._

.

…

.

.

Authors Note:

I LIED I AM VERY SORRY HOOTY HOO THIS WAS HARD TO CHURN OUT WTF IT'S SO SHORT AND IT TOOK SO LONG I GTG. SAD CHAPTER. ALL SAD. NO GOOD TIMES.


	9. unassuming

**Title:** fish hooks in the corners of their mouths

 **Summary:** "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]

 **Rating:** Tentative T

 **Disclaimer:** Disclaimed

 **Warnings:** Hints towards child abuse.

.

* * *

10.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _unassuming_

* * *

.

The house grew steadily more oppressive with each passing day. I had lashed out at Mother, beat her while she was down, and rest assured: I paid the consequence. It didn't take long for her to recollect her scattered bearings. She was angry enough after Andromeda's – departure that she hadn't even needed to break open a new bottle of wine before she started in on me. Narcissa was spared, if only because she didn't spit colourful Spanish curse words at her mother, but it wasn't like she had a great summer herself. That said, I wasn't overflowing with sympathy. I had enough bruises that sleeping became painful.

Going back to Hogwarts was a salve. I sat with Alice and her boyfriend, Mark, and was joined by Pandora and Xenophilius around halfway through the ride. Mark was a Hufflepuff — like Alice — and overly friendly — like Alice — and seemed more like the Fortescue's long-lost twin that her romantic partner to me. I tried to avoid saying that out loud; I doubted Alice would like to hear it. Still, the thought lingered, ever-present in the back of my mind. I thought it extra loud whenever they would finish each other's sentences and laugh the exact same laugh. It was a unique kind of disturbing.

Xenophilius was happy to see me. Strangely happy, almost. "You don't reply to most of my letters," he told me when I asked about the manic grin on his face, "and what replies you _do_ send are sparse in content. Can't I be happy to see you?"

"I'm still suspicious," I had replied, something tingling in my fingers. It made me want to fidget. "But since it's as good a reason as any, I'll allow it."

"You're just as gracious as I remember you." Xenophilius said. He swallowed nervously, then reached out and patted my shoulder. "Thanks for giving me permission to be happy to see one of my best friends."

I blinked at him. Did he just pat my shoulder? He did, didn't he? I sent a poorly hidden look in Pandora's direction: she was beaming at Xenophilius, looking like a proud mother hen. Okay, I thought, quietly baffled. This was _new._ Xenophilius was seeking contact now? Immediately after his summer holidays with the orphanage? How… unusual. I wondered if the letters he had sent me explained the new shift within him. If I'd bothered to read them, I might not have been as surprised as I was.

" _One_ of your best friends? Hopefully _the_ best," I said instead of voicing my thoughts. I had been wary of saying anything that would cause Pandora to glare at me. It'd been an entire summer since the last time she had looked at me like that. I wanted to continue that streak as long as I was able – somehow, I doubted revealing that I only read half of Xeno's letters was the way to do that.

"That role belongs to _me_ ," said Pandora, ruffling Xenophilius' hair. "I've earned it! Did we tell you, Cal? I think we did—"

"Tell me what?"

"Oh, I must not have then," Pandora frowned. It was entirely likely that she had told me and that I'd simply not read the letter. Once again, I restrained from giving any hints towards that. "…No matter, I'll tell you now. I visited Xeno over the summer!"

I blinked. "You did?"

"She did," Xenophilius was smiling still, though now he was a little flushed. "It was quite the surprise, I wasn't expecting her at all. The matron nearly threw Pan out on her head when she showed up out of nowhere claiming she was my _'friend from school'._ "

"Why didn't she?"

A little haughtily, Pandora said, "Because my sweet disposition convinced her otherwise!"

At my dubious look, Xenophilius laughed. "She somehow managed to win Grimaldi over — don't ask me how, I've no idea. All the kids at the orphanage think Pan drugged her. She kept calling Pandora an angel. She even baked her some oatmeal cookies! I thought there'd be a riot!"

"I shared," Pandora sniffed. She looked overjoyed. "You all had no right giving me the cold shoulder like you did. I was generous with the goods I acquired!"

Xenophilius opened his mouth to reply. I cut in quickly, eyebrows raised. "So, good summer then?"

" _Great_ summer," Xenophilius' cheeks were bright red. I had never seen him so happy before. "The best summer of my _life._ " And at that, I found it hard to resent him for his happiness. I wrestled the swelling bitterness down and locked it away where it could not bother me for now. I settled into my seat and relinquished the floor entirely to my best friends, and let their glowing recounts of their summer rock me into a calm meditative state. The train, combined with their voices plus Alice and Mark's quiet whispers, rocked me off to sleep.

It was the best sleep I had snatched for three months.

.

* * *

.

I sat between Xenophilius and Sirius during my introduction to the Study of Ancient Runes. There were a motley of people in the class, but for the most part, it was dominated by blue and green. There were only six Gryffindors, including Sirius, and a mere count of three towards the Hufflepuffs. Everyone else was either my housemate or a Slytherin. Seeing as classes were for learning and not socializing, I didn't mind this all too much.

Sirius — as he often did — disagreed.

"This is disgusting. We're in a snake pit, Cal. A snake pit." He hissed from the corner of his mouth. He was sending the room a long look filled with concentrated paranoia. From the point of view of someone who preferred discretion, I didn't much like the way he was radiating challenge from my corner of the room. However, as someone who disliked about 90% of the Slytherins in the room, I was delighted. "No class is worth 90 minutes in _their_ company _._ "

"Don't call me that. And if you didn't want to share a class with Slytherins, you shouldn't have picked Ancient Runes."

He made a non-committal noise. "It's too late for that piece of advice _now_. Minnie won't let me switch electives."

"As if McGonagall's disapproval has ever stopped you before," I muttered.

Sirius was so occupied with his telepathic battle with the Slytherins that he didn't hear me properly. Distracted, he asked, "What was that?"

"Nothing," I replied quickly. "What are you doing in this class in the first place – I forgot to ask earlier."

"Uh…" Sirius looked over his shoulder quickly before squinting at me, "… No reason."

"That was believable." I said dryly. He shrugged as if that was no fault of _his_. "You don't even like Runes. I figured you would be in Arithmancy. Muggle Studies. Merlin, maybe even _Divination._ Runes has always been your last resort."

"I'm good at it!"

"That starts to lose its meaning when you're good at _everything_."

"Aw shucks, cousin, stop! You'll make me blush!" he waggled his eyebrows at me for that one, to which I rolled my eyes. I didn't say it to flatter him, it was just the truth. Sirius was a damn prodigy. I'd stopped pretending otherwise when we were seven. "What makes you think that I don't like Runes anyway?"

"The fact that I _know you,_ maybe?" Runes had never fascinated Sirius — like History of Magic, it completely failed to ensnare his attention. When we were young and being groomed to uphold family expectations, being pumped full of decorum and knowledge that we had to unleash upon guests so that it could reflect back on our family, Sirius had never liked Runes. Finding out that I was a natural at the subject was perfect for him; I did all of our homework for it. "You have to have an ulterior motive."

"I'm loving the faith you have in me."

"I know you, Siri."

"Apparently not, if you're so—"

Xenophilius, who had been quiet while we talked, abruptly elbowed me under the table. Not a second later, Professor Babbling cleared her throat and primly called, "Mr Black? Miss Black? I'm sorry, am I interrupting your very important conversation with my teaching?"

Sirius immediately started to grin. I, on the other hand, began to sink in my seat. Everyone's eyes were on us. Sirius might have been used to it, but I wasn't, and I wasn't inclined to enjoy it either. There were a few scattered snickers. "Apology accepted, Professor," my cousin said graciously, all pomp and charm. He was unconcerned with the thunderous way Professor Babbling was now looking at him. "You weren't interrupting at all. Mostly, at least. It's okay — you were easy enough to tune out."

I might have inhaled my tongue around this point.

Babbling's face was bright red. "Why, never in all my years—Mr Black, that is no way to talk to your professor!"

Sirius looked like he had no idea what she was talking about. His smile was still in place. "It's all my cousin here's fault, Professor," he said lightly, and at that—

 _What?!_ I attempted to glare a hole through Sirius' head. " _What are you—_ "

"Is this true, Miss Black?" Babbling interrupted, bearings gathered and stare icy. I tried not to quail under it. I probably wasn't that successful.

"I—"

"Oh yeah, it definitely is!" Sirius cut in, patting my back. I resumed in my glaring. What was he doing? This was belligerent, even for his standards. "Callidora doesn't know how to tell me to shut up, you see — too nice — and even if she did, I wouldn't listen to her. She's too _Ravenclaw._ They're like Hufflepuffs that way, don't you agree? That lot simply aren't confident enough for me to take them seriously. It's nothing personal."

"Mr Black, that is simply—" Professor Babbling sucked in an outraged breath. Putting one fist on her hip, she jabbed her finger at another table and shrieked, "You _will_ be separated from your cousin until I trust you to behave yourself in my class!"

Sirius clapped his hands over his mouth. " _Oh no_!" He sounded — utterly distressed by this news. As it was, I was close enough to him to see the smile pulling at his lips from behind his hands. "Don't separate us!"

Looking pleased by his reaction, Babbling scanned the room. "Until you have learned your lesson about manners, Mr Black, I am afraid that I will have to insist that you move. You can sit…" she points, "…right _there_!"

She was pointing at MacDonald and Johnson, two of the three Hufflepuffs. Sirius gasped and said, "No, not next to Evans! She's too mean, Professor! You wouldn't be so cruel, would you? _Would you_?" A quick skim of the class arrangement showed that MacDonald and Johnson weren't anywhere near 'Evans'. Babbling looked slightly confused, but quickly covered it up. She shifted her finger until it was pointing at another table, one with a red headed girl and a hooked-nosed Slytherin.

Oh, I thought. _Oh._

"Sitting beside a friend is a privilege that you will earn, Mr Black. As soon as you can prove to me that you take this class seriously, I will sit you beside Miss Evans. Is that clear?" Sirius sighed once again, the very picture of teenage melodrama. He scooped up his books and prepared for the trek across the class for his new table. His shoulders were slumped. I was beginning to come to a Conclusion. Babbling was pleased by his defeated posture, "Good. Now, Mr Snape, I'm sorry for the inconvenience but I will need you to switch places with Mr Black."

Sirius patted my shoulder. It felt commiserating.

I understood why. Switch places? Was… was Snape going to sit with me?

Wait.

Snape was in this class?

No, actually, that didn't matter as much as the fact that _he was going to sit next to me._ The kid who was unfortunately positioned when Sirius transfigured my floating feather into an ingot of steel in our first year. The prejudiced Slytherin who hated my cousin was going to be assigned the seat right beside me, probably for the rest of the year, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. A commiserating shoulder pat wasn't going to _cut it._ Sirius would have to get on his knees and _beg_ for my forgiveness when this was finished.

"But Professor—!"

"That's enough, Miss Evans. I'm afraid this is a necessary evil. I'm sure you'll be able to handle this, if what Professor Slughorn says about you is true. Mr Snape, Mr Black, please get a move on. I would like to finish going through this material today."

Evans and Snape looked furious with this turn of events. Sirius looked miserable, unless Babbling wasn't looking, and then he looked smug and satisfied. He dramatically stormed over to Evans table, pretending that this wasn't exactly what he was aiming for from the start. At least one of us was happy with this arrangement.

Snape swept over to my side of the room like an unwelcome heat wave in the middle of summer.

And judging by the scathing look in his eye, he remembered exactly who I was and what I'd done to him when we were eleven.

"He seems angry," Xenophilius mumbled.

"You have no idea," I responded, pretty resigned. This… was not going to be fun.

.

* * *

.

It wasn't.

.

* * *

.

Eliza Finch sighed sympathetically in my direction when I came out of the shower. "You probably used up all the hot water," she scolded, though her tone wasn't as severe as it usually was.

I gently squeezed the water out of my curls with a t-shirt. "Sorry," I muttered in response, perhaps not a sincerely as I could have been. "Lost track of time. Did you want it after me?"

"No," Eliza Finch said. She was still looking at me sympathetically. It was beginning to irritate me. I had an inkling of an idea why she would be projecting such a vibe onto me, and I didn't like it. "No, it's fine. I'll have an extra-long one tomorrow morning."

I shrugged.

"How was your holiday?" She then asked, clearing her throat. "Me and my family went to France. Did you do anything like that? Leave the country for a bit? Vacations are the best way to spend the hols, I reckon."

I thought of my mother's trembling chin as I called her a fucking bitch in Spanish. "My holidays were fun," I answered flatly, "Not as great as France. Tell me about that instead."

"Uh… yeah, sure. We stopped by the Eiffel tower first, as you do, but the only landmark worth visiting is the Louvre Pyramid—"

I let Eliza Finch talk for two whole hours with little interruption, except to ask questions when it looked like she was running out of things to say. Eventually, our other roommates sans Pandora (who was mysteriously absent) joined in to describe what they'd done over the summer, and it was probably the most any of us had ever said together in all the three years we'd been roomies. It was honestly a bit surreal.

In a series in events that I couldn't truly remember happening, we all ended up on the floor, painting each other's nails.

… I really could not tell you how it happened.

Amanda Pierce was painting my toenails a midnight blue colour — just for the base. Beside her knee was a nail polish titled 'Fireworks' that, as you might have guessed from the name, automatically animated whatever you painted to explode into fireworks. Amanda was quite excited to show it off, seeing as she'd bought it over the holidays but didn't have anyone except herself to try it out on. Eliza Finch was having her hair braided by Florence Tailor.

They were all playing _Veritaserum_ — which was, as far as I could tell, the wizarding version of _Truth or Dare_ without the _dare_ aspect — while I sat there and avoided answering any question thrown in my direction. It was a lot harder than it sounded.

Florence was in the middle of asking, "Callidora, have you seriously never had a boyfriend before?" when Pandora stumbled into the room, just shy of curfew.

Eliza Finch had a very rare smile on her face. "Ah, Travers! We've been waiting for you!"

Pandora was looking at me. More specifically, she was looking at the thirteen year old at my toes, painting fireworks on them. She looked an odd mix of deeply confused and deeply offended. "Are those crups on your fingers?" She demanded, nose wrinkled.

I knew for a fact that there were crups on my fingernails. I looked down at them like it was my first time seeing them anyway. "Hm? Are they?"

Pandora's brow furrowed. Florence grinned and said, proudly, "Yep! I painted'em myself. Don't they look so cute?"

"Crups? Cute? Not those rabies-ridden rodents, surely!"

"We get that a crup killed your cat that one time when you were five, but that doesn't mean they're hideous creatures, Finch." I said, fighting down a smirk. Amanda Pierce capped her nail polish just to make room for a high five. I exchanged it gladly. Pandora made a noise. "Pan, wanna join? I can — hmm…"

"What can you do, huh?" Amanda teased. "You can't paint nails and you can't braid hair. All you're good for is sitting there and looking pretty."

"You think I'm pretty?"

Amanda snorted and resumed her expert work on my toenails. "As if you don't _know_ ," she laughed. I blinked, a bit surprised by the verdict, before letting it slide. She was probably joking. I wasn't hideous, but my looks weren't something to write home about either. I looked back at Pandora and patted the spot next to me.

"If you can stand it, I could try my luck with your nails."

Pandora cleared her throat. Her voice still cracked when she said, " _What_?"

"Oh, come off it, Travers. Have you never done your nails before?"

"Of course I have." Pandora frowned.

"Have you ever had a friend do it?" Florence followed with, and at that, Pandora was stumped. Knowing that that was my fault, I averted my eyes from her dumbstruck figure and resumed watching Amanda. "Seriously? Never? Callidora said the same thing! That's—what is with you purebloods? Are you forbidden from having sleepovers where you have fun or something?"

"More like we don't know how to," Pandora blurted. Then: "Callidora? You're all on a first name basis?"

"Mostly," Amanda giggled, "Cal uses our last names, but it's a work in progress. We'll wear her down."

I quirked my lips up at that, but opened my mouth to correct her nevertheless. Before I could, Pandora huffed and said, "Don't call her 'Cal', she doesn't like it," taking the matter out of my hands entirely. I could have smiled.

"I'm sure I've heard you call her that," said Amanda, tilting her head up to look at Pandora.

Pandora wrinkled her nose. "Well — that's just not the point."

"Isn't it? If you can do it, why can't—"

" _I'm_ her best friend. It's different."

Amanda hummed, finishing my last toe with a flourish. "Then I guess I'll have to be Cal's best friend, right?" You could physically see Pandora's hackles raise. Before she could open her mouth, Amanda was preparing the 'Firework' polish, a pleased look on her face. "Sit down, Travers, I'll do your nails after I'm finishing doing Cal."

Pandora didn't budge.

"After I'm finishing doing Callidora, then. Gee, you're touchy."

Pandora harrumphed.

Eliza sniggered under her breath, "And here Callidora was telling us all about how you were the nice one! I knew I should have asked for a book reference. There has been no recorded case of such a phenomenon before!"

"Hey, don't be rude," Florence chastised Eliza, though she was smiling as well. "Seriously, Travers. Sit on down. I'll do your hair too, if you want."

"I—" _don't want you anywhere near my hair,_ Pandora's face was saying. She looked very conflicted. I wondered if she had interacted with Amanda Pierce outside the dorm before, because she kept sending the strawberry-blonde icy looks from the corner of her eye. Then she seemed to give up all at once, shoulders slumping, rebellion leaving her. "…Sure, I suppose. What's the harm?"

"Yaaaaay!" The rest of the girls cheered in unison. Pandora hesitantly smiled.

"Sit down there!"

"I'll be finished quickly,"

"As soon as I'm done with Cal— _Callidora_ , I was going to say Callidora! Gee, Travers. When I'm finished here, I'll get to you!"

Pandora sat beside me with her legs stretched out in front of her. As the others quickly resumed their conversation, Pandora shifted a bit closer and grabbed my hand. She spread my fingers and looked intensely at my nails. I allowed her to, still feeling bad that this was the first time she'd ever had her nails painted by a friend and knowing that that was all my fault.

I took the time to take in my best friends profile. The lighting in the room wasn't fantastic seeing as it was lit up by candles and a few floating lumos spells, but she still looked pretty, which was a miracle all by itself. As I said, the lighting wasn't flattering at all. Her eyelashes were longer than I remembered them being. She had new freckles across her nose that hadn't been there last year, and a small pimple on her chin. She'd done some growing while I wasn't looking — while I wilfully ignored her, more like. She _had_ reached out for me over the holidays. I just didn't accept it. It was my fault. I wouldn't go subconsciously shoving some blame onto her.

"… They really are well done…" she mumbled, more to herself than to me.

"You'd probably do better," I said, low enough that my voice didn't carry. Pandora's eyes flicked up, then down – quick enough that I could consider it a trick of my inattention. "I've seen your doodles. You'd do better."

"You really think so?"

"Yeah, of course."

Pandora let go of my hand, a small smile on her face. "Thanks," I shrugged. It wasn't that big of a deal. She didn't have to smile like that.

I cleared my throat and looked away.

(When did she get those freckles? At Xeno's?)

"Done! Travers, you alright if I get started on your hair now or do you wanna continue breathing into Callidora's lungs?"

Pandora leaped back from me, leaving me to blink rapidly in confusion. "You're not endearing me to you right now, Tailor. … And I _wasn't_ breathing in her face at all, thank you very much!"

"Yuh huh, sure. Just get over here and lemme braid your hair, okay?"

Pandora almost sounded sulky when she said, "…Okay…" but she wasn't dragging her feet anymore, so she must not have minded too bad.

Good.

("Two years. Two years we've been sleeping in the same room, and I only just figured out Tailor's first name. All because you somehow convinced everyone to braid each other's hair and paint each other's nails."

"Yup," I mutter, half-asleep as I tie Pandora's tie. "What about it?"

She peers down at me curiously and asks, "Why?"

Because they all wanted to ask me about my blood-traitor sister. Because they heard that Andromeda Black had forsaken the wizarding world to elope with a muggle-born nobody. Because they realized that a Black could be different and that meant that _I_ could be different, and that changed everything for them.

"I was bored," I reply, getting the dimple _just_ right, "and you were out galivanting the castle with Xeno."

" _And Alice,_ " she adds… after a pause. "If you wanted to come, you could have. You just seemed busy."

"Mmm. Whatever. Do you have my brush—ah, thank you.")

.

* * *

.

"Post is here!" the shout is followed by the thunderous flapping of a shit load of owls. Socrates landed before Pandora with two letters strapped to his leg. She replied to both of them promptly, though she hides one from me. I was so annoyed at the realization that she was still talking to Tantalus that I was completely blindsided by the arrival of Dorado.

"Is that your Andy?" Xenophilius piped up, chomping on his avocado toast. "What does she want?"

I tucked the letter into my robes. "I don't know."

"Are you going to read it later?"

 _I don't know._ "Yes," I scratched my nose. I didn't even care about the tell — the letter from Andromeda had soured my mood too much for me to care. I turned my attention back to my breakfast and asked Pandora, "How's your mum?"

.

* * *

.

"Theoretically speaking, where would one acquire a mandrake leaf without alerting the herbology professor?"

"Theoretically speaking, one would have to sneak into the greenhouses and steal the leaves when the greenhouses are not being patrolled by human or plant alike."

"Fantastic. Continuing on that theoretical thread: what type of nocturnal plants will be guarding the greenhouse tomorrow night at around, oh, I don't know, eleven o'clock?"

"There's the Mongolian Munching Melon, which bludgeons intruders who smell like chicken. Honeydew grows from the ceilings and makes a sticky trap of the floor that cannot be deteriorated unless one happens to have the ashes of a June bug carcass on hand. If you're going for Greenhouse 8, which one would be if they were theoretically looking to acquire a mandrake leaf, then you would have to watch out for the Chinese Chomping Cluster of Cautious Carrots. As the name may suggest, it is a bunch of carrot-like creatures that — well, like to eat red meat—"

"GREAT! I just realized that I don't care much for that at all. Next question: How willing would you be to acquire the mandrake leaves instead of subjecting some poor moron who doesn't care about plants to the embarrassment of death by carnivorous cabbage?"

"Theoretically speaking?"

"Theoretically speaking."

"Theoretically speaking, I would be very willing to acquire a few mandrake leaves."

" _YES!_ "

"… _For a favour_ ,"

"…Do I _have_ to?"

"If you theoretically want to acquire these mandrake leaves without answering my questions then yes, yes you do. Relax, I'm not asking for anything serious. You just owe me big time in the future. I'm putting a gigantic IOU in the bank. Deal?"

"You won't ask questions?"

"None."

"And you'll get the leaves without tipping off Sprout?"

"She'll never know they're gone."

"…Alright. You have a deal. …Right after you explain what an IOU is."

"…Oh, yeah—"

.

* * *

.

 _My dearest sister Dora,_

 _A month marks the day since I left home — since I left_ _you_ _. I am living with a… friend of mine; you have never met him, though I one day hope to change this, as this friend is very important to me._

 _I am safe. I am healthy. All of my bruises have healed—they are nothing more than bad memories (I hope the same can be said for any of your injuries, although I am aware that it may be… optimistic of me to think such a thing, given your company). I know you have not asked – indeed, you have not responded to any of my five letters – but I know that you still care, even if you have not indicated as such. I know this because I know_ _you_ _, dearest sister. You have_ _always_ _cared, despite our parents earnest efforts to beat such a trait out of you. With that in mind, consider this my formal reassurance of my state of mind, since you are not here to confirm it for yourself._

 _I have spent many summers away from you before, but knowing that I will never again be returning to the house, I feel your absence more keenly than I have felt any bruise. That said, as much as I love you, I would not suffer any more torture under Druella. I respect myself too much, I fear. …And no, that was not thinly-veiled criticism. You are but thirteen years old, sister, and thus, still dependent on her oh-so-doting care. I do not resent that you remain under her house, following Cygnus' racist doctrine; nor do I hold you in bad esteem despite your… silence as of late._

… _Little sister, I understand that you feel… betrayed right now; that you may feel that my recent actions as of late may feel like a personal attack against you and our relationship. I understand this—I_ _do_ _. But_ _you_ _must also strive to understand how_ _I_ _felt, trapped within that house as I was. You are an intelligent, empathetic young lady, Dora. I know that you would not punish me for self-care (you are not so selfish)._

 _It has been a month. Despite the reassurance of my friend and my own memories of you, I am having doubts. I do not wish to pressure you or force you into an uncomfortable situation — I would never, please trust that I would_ _never_ _want that — so if you have not forgiven me, then don't tell me that you have. I am not asking for your trust back, not if you do not feel that I have earned it. All I am asking for is a reply. A single letter. It doesn't even have to say anything. I just… would like to know that there is a chance here._

 _I miss you, Dora. Please believe that._

 _Love,  
someone who misses your letters gravely,  
Andy_

.

* * *

.

 _Andromeda,_

 _This will be the first and last letter I will ever send you. Be grateful. That is more than I would do for any other filthy blood traitor. …However, exceptions_ _must_ _be made in special circumstances such as this one. Exercise some discretion when you get this — in fact, better to burn it entirely after you have finished reading it. I want nothing more to tie me to you, do you understand?_

 _I write because I am concerned (_ _not_ _about_ _you_ _). Dora has not been the same since your disgraceful departure. I wish that she would realize that dirt such as you and the company you chose are not worth her tears, but alas, Dora's bleeding heart will be her demise. She has taken to the new changes… not so well. She spent the summer either locked in her room or messing around in that greenhouse of hers — either way, she has been missing meals. If she should perish because of starvation, I want you to be completely aware of who is to blame for that. She has stonewalled Sirius' attempts to get her out of the house and has been disposing of any letters she receives without opening them. Clearly, she misses you, and she is acting out because of it._

 _Similarly, Mother's mood has spiralled downwards since you were thrown out. I believe she finished three bottles the night you left, and has emptied the cellar by half since I last counted. Seeing as Dora has been antagonizing her lately, Dora has been the prime…_ target _of Mother's frustrations. She almost lost hearing in her left ear before Mother remembered to pull out her wand. She has been having screaming nightmares ever since._

 _I reiterate that this is all your fault. If you had not been so foolish and soft, this would never have happened. But as you are what you are and nothing I say will change it, I will move on to the point of this letter._

 _Fix this._

 _I don't care how you do it, but your terrible life choices are having severe consequences for our little sister, so take responsibility. Fix it. She is in danger. I will not bury my little sister at thirteen years old._ _I will not._

 _I will not help you with any harebrained scheme you concoct. I am no longer interested. Never contact me again. Ever._

 _\- N.C.B_

.

* * *

.

 _N.C.B._

 _I will remove Dora from your hands as soon as I am able. Or as soon as she responds to my letters. Either way, I need you to do one thing for me: pack all of Dora's belongings. Her clothes, her posters, her books, her seeds and potted plants—pack_ _everything_ _. Her wards can be deactivated with a password. Use 'Diana' to disable them and 'Esmeralda' to bring them back up (Don't ask why those names, she wouldn't tell me)._

 _And before you start: yes, I know you said not to reply, but I couldn't help myself. I need to know that you know that I still love you, and if you should ever need help, all you must do is send me an owl and I will be by your side in a second._

… _Thank you for trusting me with her, sister. It tells me more about your opinion of me than I believe you realize, and as such, reassures me greatly._

 _\- Your Sister_

.

* * *

.

Ever feel so nauseatingly, bothersomely, exhaustingly lonely that you think you might dissolve and become air? Sludge? An ash-silhouette scorched into the ground of a corpse-ridden battlefield? Ever feel vanquished? Eaten?

(Made for nothing, made for no one?)

It's a precise feeling. A building crescendo that splinters your marble ribcage. Your chest becomes a morgue where unachievable notions and forgotten delusions of grandeur and love hide like obese bears for the winter, hibernating. Your hands are made up of the shards of shattered wine bottles. sometimes i think, nobody i have ever met will remember my name and i will fade like afternoon light, a legion of gods will dip this penumbra they call a body into the Lethe and my blood will come to an end. A heart repelled. A soul forgotten. A promise abandoned.

Everything rational is real, and everything real is rational. So if something is rational, then it is inevitable that it will becomes real, right? If something is real, then that something is therefore rational? Going by those rules, my betrayal, my hurt, my blooming bitterness — it's real, and therefore, it is rational.

(I am so incredibly lonely and that's funny – hilarious – because I did it to myself. Who cares about self-mutilation, really. What is worshipping your cool blue veins with a rusted razor compared to _this?_ I am a secret word whispered into the rippling night. I am a pyre of bones that don't fit right anymore; feather-hearted and waiting and waiting and _unfulfilled._ )

It is rational to take my sister leaving me as a personal abandonment. It is therefore rational to stonewall all her attempts to contact me just because I am hurt by the decision she made. It is therefore rational for me to hate that she prioritized her own safety over my comfort, because my feelings are real, and if something is real, then it is rational.

Rational… and selfish.

It isn't like I don't _know_ that I'm being dumb about this. It's just that I don't care. I'm hurt. I am _hurt._ I am _bleeding_ over this; my main concern is cauterizing the wound, not attending to someone else. Andy promised me forever and then she _left._ It's — it's all I can focus on.

 _But she was in danger,_ you say. _But she has a muggle-born boyfriend, of course she couldn't stay. But she had all these good reasons to leave,_ you say. _She had to go,_ you say. _It was going to happen eventually,_ you say.

I hear you.

I raise this in response: _I don't care._ She left. She had good reasons to leave and she will be happier and she will _loved_ like she deserves and I do not care because none of that seems to matter if she will not achieve it with _me_ at her side. I have always been there. I cannot accept that I no longer can be. It — I can't — I can't _do this without her_.

(How can she do it without _me_?)

It isn't that she has _left_.

It is that she has left _me._

There is a difference, and I have noticed it.

.

* * *

 **.**

 **...**

 **.**

* * *

Authors Note:

Sorry it took so long for me to update (and for this update to be so _short_ and _bad_ ) but it took about a week for me to remember how to get out of bed and then however long else to remember that time exists. Please let this satisfy you until I figure out a legitimate plot outline for Callidora's Hogwarts adventures. Hogwarts is so difficult. War-time and Canon timeline is all figured out but Hogwarts… it eludes me. Once again: sorry for the bad chapter! I tried to stretch it as long as I could but it would not cooperate.

IMPORTANT: I have come to the conclusion that Callidora's first person POV is hindering the story more than it is helping, so from now on, chapters will be written in THIRD PERSON from an OUTSIDER POV. This means that Callidora's voice is going to be removed until she has something useful to say, basically. I just feel that the story will be bettered if we aren't hearing from such a limited person: expect more Sirius, Lily, Snape, canon characters, etc.


	10. the one where callidora visits sirius

**The story is going to be discontinued. Well, it's _already_ discontinued: I'm definitely not finishing it, and for that, I apologize. I know I'm disappointing some of you guys with this announcement (or simply annoying you for posting a chapter that's not even a real chapter) but I wanted to get the word out there officially.**

* * *

Title: fish hooks in the corners of their mouths  
Category: Books » Harry Potter  
Author: deletrear  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Summary: "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]  
Dedication: This chapter and all the ones following it go out to everyone who's made it this far with me. Thanks.

.

* * *

11.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _the one where callidora visits sirius (post-fifth year summer)_

* * *

.

James entered the room with no expectation to find either Black in it. This expectation was born from the fact that there was no screaming, crying, black smoke, or any sort of sound that indicated a priceless heirloom was being used as a projectile, and thus made it an unlikely place for the cousins to be spending time together.

It was entirely possible that James was exaggerating. He wasn't in that precise moment — he really was expecting a fire — but it was a fact that he was somewhat known for his penchant with hyperboles.

He opened the door to the manor's fourth (and consequently smallest) library, to find Sirius and Callidora. Both unscathed and without a hair out of place. James was… _surprised_ , maybe. Moreso wary.

The lack of blood and loose teeth could be credited to the fact that they were on opposite sides of the room with their backs to each other. James would bet ten galleons that the distance was Callidora's idea, if only because it was a _good one_. Not that he'd say so, of course — no one would appreciate Sirius sulking about the house. (Well, Callidora might, but she didn't count as she didn't live there and definitely didn't have to share a room with the aforementioned Sulker.)

James opened his mouth to comment on the remarkable miracle that was Sirius and Callidora Black co-existing without bloodshed when something moved in the corner of his eye.

Nestled in the bookcases, right between _'Bippity Boppity Boo: The Tales of Barda the Bunny'_ and _'Bindings and Ties: How To Detain Criminals!'_ was a spider of frankly excessive size, possessing an equally as disturbing amount of hair, eyes, and legs.

James leaped backwards. "How did that hideous thing get in here?!"

Sirius licked his thumb and loudly turned a page. "Her name," he said, disengaged, and yet there was an unmistakable chill to his voice that James' not-so-inner troublemaker smiled to hear, because it usually meant Sirius was going to say something that would get James into detention for laughing too loudly at, "is _Callidora_ , and you, for some suspicious reason that I suspect involved some very dark magic from a certain someone's wand, invited her."

Callidora huffed, clicked her tongue, and snapped her book shut. James turned (keeping a watchful eye on the spider) just in time to see her fling an orange light at her cousin. Sirius dodged it without looking up, only to duck into the book that Callidora threw not a second after her "jinx".

" _Arse_."

"Tart! What'd you do that for?"

"I am not _hideous_ —"

"Okay, but the spider," James intercepted, because as much as he wanted to sit back and watch them tear each other's throats out (and really, he did, honestly he'd like nothing more than to relax and let them kill each other, leaving him to get _one_ blissfully peaceful night's sleep), his mum had certain "expectations" for hosting guests, and one of those "expectations" just so happened to be not letting them destroy the West Wing of the manor simply because it would _'entertain him, really, James, have you no decorum at all?'_

Callidora rolled her eyes at James despite not looking away from Sirius. "Costello the Fifth."

James waited. No explanation came. Because of course not, why would it? "...I'm sorry, who?"

This time, Sirius was the one rolling his eyes. He looked remarkably like his cousin when he did. James tucked that thought away for later so he could appropriately horrify Sirius with it right before he went to sleep. It'd serve him right. "The spider, Prongs. The spider's name is Costello the Fifth."

"Oh. Okay. Why did you name the spider Costello?"

"The _Fifth_."

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters!"

"Sheesh, alright, excuse me. Why did you name the spider Costello the Fifth?"

Sirius sent an accusing look at Callidora. Callidora frowned, evidently not seeing the cause for confusion. Sometimes, James really didn't get her. More than his usual bafflement over Callidora's presence, that was, which was already quite an impressive amount of baffle. "What else was I supposed to name him? Jim? Distasteful."

"It's a _him_?" The Black cousins sent him identical looks of impatience. James made a face back at them. Sirius grinned at it. Callidora wrinkled her nose. Nice to know that one of them had a respectable sense of humor. "Well, whatever. What happened to Costello the Fourth? And the others ones before it?"

"Sirius," Callidora said, primly, "murdered them with 'A Dummies Guide to Defense: Deluxe Edition'!"

Sirius was instantly on the defensive. "It's just an insect!"

"It's an arachnid, and they didn't deserve to die just because you thought they were ugly!"

Sirius scoffed and flung himself backwards so he was lying on the couch, deliberately out of Callidora's sight. His incredibly smart and mature reply to that was a muttered, "Says you," that only carried because he wanted Callidora to hear it.

She did. Her ears went red. She looked like she wanted to throw another book at his best friend. Normally, James would have no problem with this (he could think of a few socks under his mattress and dirty underwear not belonging to him on his pillow that made him amiable to the idea) but she was holding a pretty old book and James wasn't sure it would survive against Sirius' skull. It was a very durable skull, you see. Many a hard-covered objects failed to measure up against it.

And James' mum would kill them all if that book suffered so much as a crinkle. Best to reign the wild animals in, then, before they all got slaughtered, stuffed, and hung over the fireplace.

James said, "Well! Lunch is ready. If you're interested." To his credit, Sirius looked interested. To no one's surprise, Callidora also looked interested, just — in murder, and not eating. "Please be interested, 'cause mum'll string me up if you idiots smash her favourite library while you're trying to kill each other. I like you guys, but not that much,"

"Liar," said Callidora, except Sirius' heartfelt, "Prongs, you dick!" completely drowned her out. Just as well.

.

* * *

.

 **Okay, explanation time. When I first started this story, I was sixteen and in a really terrible, confusing place. Depression and unacknowledged post-traumatic stress were seriously messing with me. To deal with it all, I wrote a SI OC for my all-time favourite piece of media. As we all know, most of the Harry Potter world is underdeveloped — for author's, it's a veritable playground. For author's with _mental illnesses_ , it's one of the most harmless coping methods we can indulge in (which is what I did). That's why Callidora is the way she is: moody, sad, hopeless, in constant fear and pain. It's why she does frustrating things like have panic attacks every two scenes and have entire chapters dedicated to her self-destruction, to her pushing away her loved ones. Coping.**

 **And that's why I can't write her anymore. I am in a much happier place. It isn't perfect, but I'm doing therapy to try and understand and recover from past trauma. Writing Callidora requires a specific (sometimes pretentious — come on, I named the story '** ** _fish hooks in the corners of their mouths_** **,' How much more pretentious can you** ** _get?_** **) mindset that I can't access. Thus, I will have to put this entire story, concept, and undiscovered potential to a permanent sleep.**

 **Thank you to everyone who favourited, followed, reviewed, or did all three. It helped me a lot when I was in a bad place and I'll always owe y'all gratitude for that. Some of you had reviews telling me that you're happy that I'm writing a character like Callidora — that you're comforted to have a character who you can relate to, especially regarding the depression. If ANY of you guys need an open ear, drop me a PM. I'm not as great as Callidora, but as someone who's quite good at suffering in silence, I'm reluctant to let others do the same.**

 **NOW! I** ** _do_** **have a shit load of unfinished works for Callidora's story. I'll be posting them as official chapters, if unfinished and raw, and it'll be all at once. I'll do a summary of the context of everything before I throw you guys into the deep end of it, but the idea is to clear my wip folder entirely of Callidora content.**

 **And so, the spring cleaning begins!**


	11. the one where callidora is an aunt

Title: fish hooks in the corners of their mouths  
Category: Books » Harry Potter  
Author: deletrear  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Summary: "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]  
Dedication: This chapter and all the ones following it go out to everyone who's made it this far with me. Thanks.

.

* * *

12.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _the one where callidora and andromeda are sister's again (+ a new tonks!)_

* * *

.

"Her name is Nymphadora," says Andy. She holds her newborn baby with a solid, dependable grip that is hard and soft in all the right places. Her hands seem like they were made to cradle Nymphadora's fragile skull, but that's just Andy; how she is, how she's always been. Always the protector. The gentle one. The foundation.

"Nymphadora Tonks."

"Has a ring to it," I say. I don't mention that the name has the same 'ring' to it that a discharged bullet does: a shattering sound, and potentially deafening if you're exposed enough. "Poor girl."

"You don't like it?"

I shake my head. I love the name. Nymphadora. Callidora _._ No, I love it very much. " _I_ think it's perfect. I'm afraid she'll take after her mother is all. Who was it that insisted we call her _Andy_ because Andromeda was simply _too long_ —"

"Oh, enough. Nymphadora is a good name. First class. It has a nice meaning behind it."

I almost say something dry and sarcastic, just to see if I can get away with it. Andy is smiling too softly. I find that I can't ruin this for her, even though the idea of having a niece named for me is… _oh._

I clear my throat only because there's a something stuck in there from lunch. I scrub at my eyes because I'm tired; after all, I have been at Andy's bedside for 10 hours now. If my hands shake when I stretch them out to gently stroke Nymphadora's plump, silky cheek, it's because I am tired and nothing more than that.

"My niece," I say, flatly, because anything else would be too raw and I can't risk that. "This is my niece?"

Anyone else would have thought me disinterested, perhaps even disapproving. Not Andy.

Never Andy.

She understands. She smiles at me, somehow tired _and_ rejuvenated. This baby, 7 minutes and 12 seconds old, has restored more life and happiness to my sister's face than I could with 15 years of earnest effort.

And the efforts _were_ earnest, let there be no doubt about that.

"Your niece. My daughter. You're an _aunt_ , Dora." I don't say anything. Spanish lullabies lurk on the back of my tongue: I beg them to stay there. For now. "Would you like to hold her?"

"Ave maria," I choke, and cannot even worry if my use of my native language seems strange to anyone, " _Would I like to_ — yes, Andy. Yes, I would very much like to hold her!"

Andy smiles wide enough that it's a grin by her own strict standards. She transfers my niece to my arms, says, "Be careful, make sure you support—" and I interrupt to say, "I know, Andy, I'll be careful," because Nymphadora isn't the first baby I've held. She isn't even the first niece I've rocked to sleep in my arms.

But she is, somehow. _Technically_. She's the first _everything_ even when she _isn't_ because she's Andy's, and never in any life have I had my finger gripped in the by a child belonging to my sister, a child belonging to my Andromeda.

Merlin.

My eldest sister, a mother?

(I was an _auntie_ again—)

Who could have thought?

Andy reaches out, and for a second I think she is going to reclaim her daughter, but she doesn't. She just puts her hand on my cheek, brushes her thumb under my eye, and tells me: "You're crying."

Ugh. Really?

"I cry all the time," I say, as if we both aren't aware of this. Though this _is_ the first time I've been happy to. "She's — she's beautiful, Andy. I'm proud of you."

For a moment, it seems like Andy will cry too. The thought briefly amuses me. Mother and Father would have sooner had us publicly crucified than allow us to cry in public (and over something so trivial as a _birth_ , at that) but that's the charm of it, I suppose. Mother is dead and Father can't touch us, can't touch Nymphadora.

(I didn't know I could feel such a fierce pride at the idea. Nymphadora didn't have to know my father. She didn't have to _know_ , the way that Andy knows, the way that I know, how it feels to hear his footsteps echo through the hallways and feel the purest form of _fear._

She didn't know. She wouldn't _ever_ know.

Ugh. No wonder Andy wanted to cry.

She doesn't; of course she doesn't. Instead she laughs. "I'm rather proud of myself as well. Look at that nose. That's her Dad's nose. And her Dad's chin."

"She has your mole, though. See?"

" _Hush_. It looks nice on her."

"It looks nice on you as well, dear," Teddy says as he enters the room. Ha, smooth. He has a glass full of water and tube full of pale blue potion. "How's the pain? Hello, Callidora," His eyes soften, warm, and as soon as he frees his arms I hand him Nymphadora, "Hello, baby Tonks!"

Andy tips back the potion and water in quick succession. She quickly fires questions at Teddy regarding Nymphadora — the weighing, the measurement, the " _birth certificate nonsense_ " — all things which I ignore.

I have a sudden need to tell my sister how much I love her, have her _understand_ , but I don't have the words. I want to tell her that I have missed her all these years, more than I dared think possible, and that I was afraid for her; that I never hated her for doing what was best for her, that I forgave her for leaving me and that I was sorry for ever holding it against her. I had so many things I wanted — _needed_ — to say, and none of the valor or courage required to _spit it out_.

So I reach out and clasp her sweaty hand in mine. Andy doesn't look away from her fiancé and her daughter, but her smile grows, and she squeezes my hand firmly and sweetly.

I think, _Fifteen years and I don't think that I have ever been so comfortable with my existence in this world until this moment._

Teddy kisses Nymphadora's nose, then gives the same treatment to Andy's. Something small and sharp and dark rises in my gut even as another thing blooms and twists and spirals in my chest.

 _Ave maria_... If anyone touches this family, I'll tear them to shreds with nothing but my teeth and my nails. And I'll do it with a _smile_.


	12. the one where callidora kidnaps a boy

Title: fish hooks in the corners of their mouths  
Category: Books » Harry Potter  
Author: deletrear  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Summary: "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]  
Dedication: This chapter and all the ones following it go out to everyone who's made it this far with me. Thanks.

.

* * *

13.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _the one where callidora kidnaps a certain boy celebrity_

* * *

.

In his defense, he didn't _mean_ to.

It was just such an easy test that Harry didn't know _how_ to answer the questions wrong. Deliberately failing had seemed impossible at the time, so Harry had put effort into the test, thinking nothing of it. He didn't _mean_ to get all the questions right, okay, and he _especially_ didn't intend on embarrassing Dudley—who had failed by two points. The teacher had to hold him back and ask if he was, " _alright with the work_ _they were doing in class."_

(They were doing _shapes!_ )

Harry could recite the speech from memory, tone, facial expression, inflection (oh, that disappointed inflection) and all. He'd gotten the talk enough times, as the one who usually failed his tests. Dudley never had, though. This was the first time. He didn't look too thrilled with it. Instead of pretending to listen, he was glaring out the window Harry was watching him from, face vermilion. He couldn't quite see it, but Harry was confident his cousin was clenching his fists.

It was a sure sign that Dudley's favourite game, Harry Hunting, was on the horizon. He wouldn't be pleased with him at all. That's why Harry took it upon himself to start running _then_ , and not later, like, say, _after_ Dudley had gathered his other bloodhound friends. The young boy felt he was owed a head start in this game, considering all he had to put up with on a daily basis.

Residents of Little Whinging despised Harry, mostly because of the rumours that got around about him. At seven years old, he was used to his less-than-stellar reputation. Resigned to it, really. It was no use raising a fuss about if—no one in this neighbourhood was interested in troublemaker Harry Potter's opinion, after all. The best Harry could do was avoid giving them further fuel against him: this meant absolutely _no running_ through the streets. It was the back alleys and jumping wire fences, or public scorn and being dragged to Number 4 Privet Drive by his ear.

On the bright side, there was no one who knew shortcuts and hidey-holes better than Harry did; no one was small or hunted enough to. At least he had that. Brains were better than brawn anyway.

Breathing hard enough to hurt his throat, Harry quickly cut across the park and disappeared into the messy hedges of Number 21—an old house, unoccupied, that had a lopsided 'FOR SALE!' sign at the front. The lawn was well-maintained, but the hedges weren't treated so kindly, and thus made perfect hiding places for little boys hiding from their mean, fat cousin and his mean, fat friends.

Dudley came thundering down the streets, shouting, "Potter! Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

No thank you _,_ thought Harry, sinking even further into the cover of leaves. A branch scratched along his temple, knocking his glasses askew. The bush gently rustled as he shifted around, trying to find a more comfortable position.

"Come here, Potty!"

"Don't you wanna play, Potter? Don't you wanna play your favourite game?"

"You think you can make a fool out of Dudley and get away with it, freak?!" Harry snorted. Making a fool out of Dudley wasn't exactly _hard_ —he did most of the work himself, with little to no intervention necessary from Harry's side. "Think again!"

At least Harry _could_ think. He doubted Piers, Dudley's friend, had ever been introduced to the concept.

Dudley hollered, "Get out here and make it easier for us! I'll get you anyway!"

Ah. That's right.

Harry frowned, snapping a twig to keep it out of his nostrils. Whether or not he managed to escape this encounter unscathed, he still had to go home, where Dudley lived. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Dursley would be home as well—they wouldn't be too pleased to hear Harry had outranked their perfect son in something as simple as geometry. He'd get a good earful before being shoved into the cupboard without dinner.

A car backfired somewhere around the corner. Dudley's voice grew closer and then further as he walked past Harry's hiding spot, _still_ screaming to the sky. There was no way the residents on the street didn't hear him. That meant that they were ignoring him. Harry could sneeze into a handkerchief and be thrown into a small metal box for quarantine while everyone else frantically bathed and scrubbed any surface he had touched. And yet, Dudley could trot around threatening to beat Harry up, and not a single person looked away from their telly. Funny how that worked.

Harry held his breath until he was absolutely sure Dudley had turned the corner. Once he was, he crawled out from his hole in the hedge and stood up on two shaky legs, pulling twigs and leaves from his hair, carefully plucking ants from his person.

In his preoccupation, Harry didn't hear anyone approach.

"Playing in the bushes, were you?" The messy-haired boy whipped around with wide eyes. The voice belonged to a woman with curly black hair, tanned skin, and striking grey eyes. There was an odd look on her face that Harry couldn't place. "There's a park not too far from here. I'm sure there are less twigs there to scratch you."

Harry was confused. The woman's eyebrows lifted, and she gestured to the side of her head. Harry followed her lead and jumped when his fingers touched a fresh cut. That's right, a branch had scraped him. It wasn't bleeding much, but now that Harry was aware of it, it sure stung.

The woman hummed, the odd look still present in her eyes. "Would you like me to clean that up for you?"

"What?" He blurted, suspicious, "Sorry, pardon? I… it isn't bleeding much."

"But it _is_ bleeding,"

"Yeah, but… I've had worse. Besides, I don't even know who you are," said Harry, squinting, "The news talks about people who take kids all the time. Strangers. How do I know you aren't one of them?"

The woman looked surprised. Then she smiled. "You're right to be cautious. You shouldn't ever walk away with a stranger, especially one you've never seen before—not even in passing. Excellent work," Harry flushed at her praise, "Allow me to introduce myself, then, so we are no longer strangers. My name is Callidora Black. And who might you be?"

"...Harry."

"Harry? Just Harry?"

"Er, no. Potter. Harry Potter."

"Well," said Callidora, extending her hand. Harry shook it weakly and was surprised at the amount of callouses he felt. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Er No Potter Harry Potter."

Harry shuffled his feet, embarrassed at her attention. "Er… yeah, you too. Are you new? To the area? I've never…"

"Seen me before?" She finished for him when he trailed off. "I'm afraid I don't live here, actually. This is my first time in Little Whinging. I'm here to… _visit_ someone very important to me."

Harry asked, "Are you visiting family?" Like Aunt Marge, he thought, except Callidora was already much prettier and nicer than Aunt Marge could dream of being. Plus, she didn't have any angry dogs, which was always a good sign.

"I suppose," she said noncommittally. She stared somewhere over Harry's shoulder, eyes distant, before she blinked rapidly, banishing the strange melancholy away in an instant. Still, the smile she gave Harry was one of the saddest he'd ever seen. "Maybe we weren't related in blood, but I considered him family in all the ways that counted."

"Blood family isn't all that great anyway," said Harry, rather awkwardly, "If it makes you feel any better."

Callidora covered her mouth with her hand and coughed, her eyes alight. "Indeed, Harry. Not that great at all, are they? You could consider the idea somewhat overrated."

Harry wasn't sure what that meant, but nodded regardless, because Callidora was nice and spoke very softly and didn't even know that Harry had a bad reputation and wasn't looking for reasons to get him in be trouble, and just for that, Harry for thought he might like her. And if he liked her, then he saw no reason not to take her for her word.

"Which house are you going to?" Harry asked, intending on giving Callidora directions. He felt it was the least he could do since she was so nice to him without reason.

Callidora's lips twitched up in what could be considered a smile. "I'll tell you only if you let me tend to that cut of yours."

Harry's hesitation showed on his face.

She raised her eyebrows and picked the hem of her dress (?) at the knees, folding her legs under her as she sat on the lawn without hesitation. Harry stared. Callidora gestured to the ground in front of her and said, "I don't intend on kidnapping or harming you, Harry. I can clean your scratch out here if you'd prefer. Anyone could see us."

That _did_ make him feel better. Harry sat cross-legged in front of Callidora. Her back was straight, her chin out, her hands elegantly folded in her lap. Harry was suddenly self-conscious of his own posture—hunched shoulders, back bent like a question mark; even his knees, which were knobbly and dirty, felt like a mark against him in her eyes. He attempted to mimic Callidora's posture, but couldn't maintain it too long.

There was a soft sound coming from the woman, but she only shook her head when Harry turned to her. "It's nothing," she insisted, even though her lips were twitching again. It obviously wasn't nothing. "Can I heal it now, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "I guess,"

Callidora didn't waste anytime. She pulled a thin pale stick that looked a bit like dried out driftwood to Harry and pointed it at his wound. She looked at Harry patiently, and after a moment, he realized she was waiting for his permission. For what? To poke him in the eye with her stick? He almost told her that if he wanted that, he'd have stayed in the hedge, but there was no malice on her face and for that, he mutely nodded his consent.

Gently, she said, "Verbally, Harry,"

"...Verbally?"

"It means to say something out loud. Use your words. I would have your verbal consent before I do this."

 _Do what?_ Harry wasn't sure he wanted to be poked with driftwood, but he didn't want Callidora to get up and leave if he told her 'no'. "It's fine, go ahead," He insisted, closing the eye closest to the wand prematurely. "I'm, er, ready,"

A pause. "Are you positive, Harry?"

"Yes."

"Well… there's no need to flinch; I'm hardly about to hurt you," she said. Harry searched for a sign in her voice that she was lying, and happily discovered none. He opened his eyes. Callidora was looking intensely at his forehead. She tore her eyes away from his scar and met his eyes, looking amused. "Are you ready?"

Surely a jab with a stick didn't warrant so much suspense, thought Harry, squirming. "Yes."

Callidora bobbed her head, twirled her wrist, and carefully said, " _Fascia_."

He didn't have time to be confused. One second, his temple slightly stung and there was a strange wetness dripping down his cheek. The next? He had _bandages_ wrapped around his head, and, with narrowed eyes and jerky movements of her wand, no more blood on him. He also suspected she'd somehow cleaned his face of dirt, because he felt squeaky clean.

Eyes wide, Harry's hands flew to his head to poke and pull at the bandages. "What did you _do?_ " He gasped, "It was like—"

" _Magic_?" Callidora finished, dryly amused. "Stop pulling at those, Harry, you'll loosen them and then I'll have to do the spell again."

Harry failed to see the downside of that, but Callidora looked faintly nauseous at the prospect, so he clenched his hands in his lap. "That—you can do magic _?_ Was that really magic _?_ Or was it just a trick, like—like how a magician pulls a rabbit out of their hat?"

"Does it look like I have a hat? No tricks. No rabbits. No smoke and mirrors. Just good old fashioned conjuring."

"But magic—" Harry started, pausing in his speech to stare at the wand in her hand. Wand. A real, actual wand. It had healed him. A normal stick couldn't have done that, no matter how smokey the room was. That meant… Harry felt like he'd swallowed a toad. He suddenly worried that maybe he _had._ Because _magic._ What was a... a witch doing in Little Whinging? Harry could think of no more of a dangerous place for a witch to be!

"Why are you _here?_ "

The witch— _Callidora_ , she had said, which now seemed appropriately witchy to Harry—smiled at him. Harry thought it was a little sad for such a young face. "What do you know about your father, Mr. Potter?"

Harry saw no reason to lie. "He was a no-good drunk. He didn't have a job. He died in a car crash with my mum."

A flash of something _cold_ flashed across her face. Harry felt nervous at the sight of it, at that emotion being directed towards him, and kept his body still in the interest of minimizing the target. Callidora sighed—oh no, thought Harry, _oh no_ —and tucked her wand up her sleeve in a swift, economic motion. "He wasn't any of those things, Harry," She told him. Her voice had softened. "I can promise you that much."

The young boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How would you know?"

"Because your father, James Potter, was like a brother to me once upon a time. It is one of my greatest regrets that I could do nothing to prevent his death. I'm sorry for that, Harry. I _did_ try, but the circumstances… I couldn't keep you from this house. From," She paused, struggling with something, "from the people who hurt you."

"They don't hurt me," Harry said vehemently. "They're mean, the Dursley's, but they don't _hurt_ me."

"You don't know any better," Callidora said. There was a gentle sort of knowing in her eyes that leashed the part of Harry that wanted to rebel against her words. "I… would you like to know about your father, Harry? About… about what life could be like, without all that pain and fear?"

It didn't sound so bad. Harry had never been offered information about his father before. "Did you know my mum as well?" He asked, daring to hope.

Callidora nodded. "Not as well. Not nearly as well."

It was a bit disappointing, but Harry was used to knowing nothing about his mum. What he wasn't used to was knowing about his dad, or at least, knowing anything _good_ about him. The information this witch was offering him was like gold to him; a novelty that escaped price. "Then—Then if you can tell me about my dad…"

"I will," She swore.

"...and about that… you said you could show me life without… pain? Fear?"

"I can."

"Okay," Said Harry, bobbing his head. "Er, alright. I… my dad, was he—was he magic like you?"

"No. No, he wasn't." Callidora suddenly smiled, _truly_ smiled, and the action transformed her entire face into something thrilling. Harry's stomach erupted with butterflies. He hadn't been so excited in such a long time that his little body wasn't sure what to do with all that pent up emotion. He ended up smiling back. "Your father wasn't magic like me. To say that would be an insult. James was _much_ better than I could ever dream: where school was concerned, he left me in the dust."

"My dad was a powerful wizard?"

"Oh, definitely. I'd wager that you are as well."

The implications there were enough to stop Harry in his tracks. He blinked and uttered a single word. "What?"

With a look of absolute glee on her face, Callidora said, "You're a _wizard_ , Harry. Just like your dad. Just like your mum. You don't belong here _,_ " Callidora gestured to the primly cut bushes and uniform lawns with disdain dripping from her tongue, "You belong in the world your parents lived in. The world where they're remembered with honour,"

Harry had to admit that he liked the sound of that. "But I'm not in that world. I'm in _this_ world," The one with the cookie-cutter houses and the identical picket fences. It was not a world that Harry liked, was a world drained of magic and fun and all things worth loving, but it was the only one he had.

"You don't have to be," Said Callidora. She seemed nervous. Harry didn't have time to wonder why, because not a second later, Callidora did what no one else had ever done before, in all the years Harry could remember living.

She offered him a choice.

"Would you… like to meet my family, Harry? I have a wife and a daughter one year younger than you. They'd be delighted to meet you, I think. My wife knew your mother very well, and she could tell you all sorts of stories about their school days."

There was a sunburst in Harry's chest. It was not difficult to say, " _Yes_ _,_ please."

Not difficult at all.


	13. the one where callidora is domestic

Title: fish hooks in the corners of their mouths  
Category: Books » Harry Potter  
Author: deletrear  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Summary: "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]  
Dedication: This chapter and all the ones following it go out to everyone who's made it this far with me. Thanks.

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14.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _the one where callidora and pandora share a moment of domesticity (+ xenophilius is dead haha)_

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On humid nights like this, the first thing I do is open the window to allow a fresh breeze to carry the scent of mowed grass throughout the room; it's easier to breathe.

I flick off the ceiling light but leave the bedside lamp alone so I can continue reading. Luna is asleep in her room, cuddling a raggedy Babbity Rabbity twice her age. Harry, for all that he had pretended otherwise, is probably still awake talking to his new reptilian friend. I have peace and quiet, and use it to tackle my manuscript.

Pandora joins me under the covers eventually (her and her damn hour long bedtime rituals). She pulls out a sketchpad and conjures a _lumos_ ; the sound of her charcoal scratching against parchment lulls me into a more focused state. Through the open window I hear one of my plants begin a soft serenade.

 _Safe,_ I think. _Comfortable. Routine._

How peaceful it is to be surrounded by people you trust. I don't think I'll ever get over it.

I lose myself in the editing. Who knows how much later, Pandora shifts and rolls over. I mumble, " _Buenos noches_ ," assuming she is going to sleep. She always falls asleep first.

Pandora simply hums, taking my nearest hand in hers. Her spidery fingers tangle through my bumpy ones. She tugs the back of my hand to her lips — keeps them prisoner to her warm, even breaths until I look down at her, confused.

She is smiling. Her eyes are sparkling and deep. She says, "I sometimes wish we had met differently," and I feel every syllable shape around my knuckles.

I put my manuscript to the side and shift until my unoccupied arm can move. My fingers glide along my wife's cheek until they find refuge in her hair. She leans into the touch; rewards my hand with a dry, distracted kiss.

"How would you have us meet?"

"We'd be six." Pandora answers without preamble, twisting so she is staring at the ceiling. My hand is relocated to her chest. She now cradles me between both palms. I can feel her heartbeat, steady and sure as a river. "I would tell you that you're the prettiest girl I've ever met. You would roll your eyes and tell me that I must have never looked in the mirror before."

Ha.

 _Isn't that how we met already?_ I want to say, but hold my tongue. When I had first met Pandora, she was a doll-like stranger with no filter and sweaty palms. I thought she was pretty in the way all dolled-up children were pretty, the passing way you admired a porcelain puppet in the window of a store for its realism, but there was no love on my end, not at that age.

I hum. "You're a bold pureblood in this alternate universe."

"Oh, we wouldn't be purebloods," Pandora says easily, as if this is a foregone conclusion we have already reached together. "Half-bloods, perhaps."

"Muggleborn," I suggest, almost wistful, "Better yet, _muggles_."

Pandora looks at me sideways. "I wouldn't know how to live like a muggle. I haven't the first clue."

 _I do._ "In this universe, you wouldn't know anything else. Imagine: being free of expectations. No arranged marriages."

She smiles. "That is a charming point."

"No random magical explosions from Luna's room."

"No talking snakes," Pandora giggles, "No snobby portraits of your fashion-disinclined great-great-grandmother."

"No ancestral ghosts who exist to give you relationship advice!"

"Oh, but I would miss Iola," says Pandora, "couldn't she stay?"

"She's really very dead."

"Alive, then. We're muggles, so she can be alive. Our neighbour. She spies on us from the empty guest room in the second floor and stops by every now and then to tell us that if we don't _hurry up and find husbands, good folk will get the wrong idea about us_ _._ "

Her imitation of Iola's Victorian era accent and snobby, upturned nose is truly horrible, and unflattering besides, but it makes me giggle anyway.

"And Luna? How will she be about? Will we adopt her?"

"She looks too much like me for that to work," Pandora shakes her head, "Could she be my child from another marriage?"

"We've been in love since we were six and you've been in another marriage?"

"I was waiting for you to make the first move." Pandora tells me primly, "You didn't do it quick enough. I was forced to move on. My first marriage was a happy one, and Luna is the perfect product of it."

I laugh, moving until I can rest my head beside hers. Light green eyes. Has there ever been such a colour before Pandora?

"And who is this perfect husband?" I implore teasingly, "How did I possibly win your affections if you are so obviously sold on him still?"

Something in Pandora falters. I've pushed something I didn't know should be left alone. She swallows, eyes darting to the side, before she shifts closer. She forces a smile onto her face. "Well… suppose it could only be Xeno. He — He is the only one who ever measured against you. Was. _Was_ the only one."

"Is," I correct gently, and close the distance. Our foreheads touch and the tip of her nose tickles mine. She holds my hand tighter and we lay in silence, anchoring each other as we allow ourselves to feel his loss more keener than we would dare in the sunlight. "If Iola lives, then maybe he could as well?"

Pandora mimics a laugh. "No offense intended, my love, but if… if such a thing were to happen, I'm afraid I would never have married you. I would not leave Xenophilius."

I wait for it to hurt. It doesn't. I agree with her too much to be jealous. "You wouldn't have to leave him to be with me."

Pandora wrinkles her nose. "Infidelity, Cal?"

"Sharing, Pan," I roll my eyes, "I love you. I — _love_ him. I have always loved the both of you enough. You wouldn't have to leave him."

Her breath is shaky. Her gulp is audible. She brings our faces closer and asks, "And Harry?"

"With James and Lily. He lives in our neighbourhood. He visits every week with Neville."

"My mother would be a baker. She would have her own shop. I would buy from her every morning."

I am happy to remain an orphan. There is nothing I would change with Andromeda and Nymphadora, and my tentative reconciling with Narcissa is satisfactory as is. The trials and heartbreaks born of my past with my sisters is what makes our relationship so precious right now. No, I wouldn't change any of that. Except perhaps one thing.

I swallow past a lump in my throat. "Bella is there," I decide.

Pandora pauses, but not for long. "Mmm, what's she doing?"

"I don't know. Anything. Everything. Traveling the world, I guess. She sends souvenirs that always smash before they get to us."

"I don't suppose Sirius is as unobtrusive?" Pandora tries, and I have to laugh at the thought. She sighs. "Can he be our gardener then? Servant?"

"Oh no, Sirius would be unemployed and squatting at Lupin's no doubt. Not us, though. We have _jobs_. Non-fiction author," I tap my chest. "Credited artist." I tap her cheek.

"And scientist. I am interested in science."

"Credited artist and scientist. We'd be such a power couple."

"Iola would weep at our household income."

I grin. "So that's it? We meet when we're six and that's how we become rich and powerful muggles? A different meeting is all it takes?"

"A nice first meeting results in nice things," My wife assures me. "Precedent."

Imagination, more like. Wistful dreaming. I decide to kiss her because I miss Xeno, James, Frank and Alice like it's a hole in my heart and I know she understands that I don't want to be alone. I don't want to _feel_ alone — and it isn't that I'm lonely even with Pandora around, but ghosts can be persistent weights on the both of us, and companionship is no longer a _want_ anymore; it becomes a _need_ _._

She kisses me as she holds me: warmly, intimately, with an edge of desperation tempered only by her exhaustion. We are the both of us closing in on thirty. Some days, when my bones and old scars ache upon waking and tiredness creeps up swifter than usual, I can believe it.

Pandora is the one to trail off with the chaste kisses. She plants her final one beneath my eye. She sighs into my neck. "It's not perfect, but I'm happy with what we have, you know that?"

"Yeah, my love, I know. I mean, this is no perfect muggle alternate reality where everybody lives and nobody dies, but… I like it. I like _you_."

"What, just like?"

"Sometimes more than like. I _like_ -like you on good days."

She snorts and it tickles my neck. "How many good days do we get on average?"

The plant sings on, crooning and croaking like an old blues singer. The breeze carries with it the smell of blooming flowers and summer. I can almost hear the soft snuffling of my sleeping daughter and the conspiratorial hisses of my famous orphan ward.

I am holding my wife in my arms, in our bed, in our room, in the house we _built_ for each other. This was not a future I imagined for myself, if I had ever dared to hope for one at all. It is painful, how happy and sad I could be at the same time.

The plant sings and the breeze whistles and Pandora had asked, _'_ _How many good days do we get on average?'_

I close my eyes and confess, "More than I thought I deserved."


	14. the one where callidora has pet spiders

Title: fish hooks in the corners of their mouths  
Category: Books » Harry Potter  
Author: deletrear  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Summary: "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]  
Dedication: This chapter and all the ones following it go out to everyone who's made it this far with me. Thanks.

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* * *

15.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _the one where callidora keeps spiders around for her plants_

* * *

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Ron Weasley loved his best friend. He loved him like a brother. They were neighbours and had been childhood friends since they were nine. His family was Harry's family and Harry's family was his. There was a trust, a history, a _connection_ between them that could not be undermined by fate or the horrors of public boarding school. Whatever it was these two boys shared, it was unbreakable.

That said, you could not drag him through Harry's front door if you paid him in gold class Chudley Cannon tickets.

Hermione was starting to look impatient. For other people, her immense impatience would be an indication of how frustrating Ron's continued hesitance was. Thing was, Hermione wasn't just any other person. In fact, her temper was rather infamous among her year level; it was also feared by her two closest friends. Truthfully, the duo had only been in front of the house for about ten seconds.

Still, her foot began to tap. "It's a spider, Ronald. It's perfectly harmless!"

"It's humongous!"

"It isn't going to hurt you! Oh, for goodness sake, I hope Harry isn't watching us—what is his mother going to think? I can't make a bad impression on Pandora Lovegood!"

Hermione was in love with Harry's adoptive mother. She'd been in awe of Pandora since she first read about the blood traitor in one of her many history books. Pandora Lovegood (née Travers) was renowned for introducing muggle science to the wizarding world. Her magazine, _The Lovegood_ , attempted to integrate this knowledge into the wizarding community in the simplest, most unobtrusive way possible. On top of that, Pandora Lovegood had a notorious hatred for Divination studies.

It was no wonder the bushy-haired muggle born was in love with her.

Ron, on the other hand, had once walked in on Aunt Pandora in the bathroom when he was seven. She had screamed so loudly he'd gone dizzy. Before he could regain his bearings, he had one Aunt Pandora impatiently telling him to 'please get out, Ronald, I do not need an audience-' and a Callidora Black laughing herself into a coma, gently leading him away from the bathroom.

Ron didn't care how many times the Ministry rewarded Pandora Lovegood with an award and a ball because of her astounding advancements in magic — once you walked in on someone in the bathroom, you couldn't worship them.

"I'm not going through that door."

" _Ron_!"

" _Hermione_!" Ron mocked, taking a few steps backwards to make his point. Even ten feet from the front garden he could _still_ see a large, hairy spot hanging in the right corner of the doorway. He could hear Harry'a voice, fresh even after all these years:

 _'Holy—Harry, mate, is that a — a — a —'_

 _'A... what, exactly? Oh, him? That's Cal's spider.'_

 _'You—you can't have a spider for a pet!'_

 _'Technically, we don't? Cal says he's more of a "pro-tec-tion de-tail." You can't hurt him, Ron. He guards the tomatoes. His name is Frank, if you're wondering.'_

Frank had been guarding the tomatoes going on four years now. He'd lived far too long by Ron's reckoning, and he was sure it was because Frank extended his life by sapping a bit of Ron's from him every time they met up. It was _awful_. Ron wished the bloody thing would just go and die already.

Hermione's face went pinker. She looked prepared to drag Ron through the front door by the scruff of his neck. Considering what he knew about Hermione, he didn't doubt that she would actually do it, which was unfortunate: Ron didn't want to go a millimeter closer to the door than he already was. Why did Frank have so many _eyes?_ Ron wisely took another step back.

The witch had steam coming from her ears. "We're already late enough as it is—"

Oh, Merlin, another Granger Lecture? Ron groaned and covered his ears. For some reason, this only increased Hermione's ire, and she simply spoke louder.

"—IF YOU HADN'T WOKEN UP LATE WE COULD HAVE ARRIVED EARLIER AND I WOULDN'T MIND SO MUCH THE HOLD UP—"

"Blimey, Hermione," came the voice of Ron's god-sent _saviour._

Harry stood at the side of the house, a great goofy smile on his face. He told Ron that he never got sick of having visitors. It was obvious that the novelty had yet to wear off, even after two long, long years of Ron's persistent visitations.

His best mate waved, cheeky. He looked healthy, which was a bloody relief. It was always nice to see that he hadn't gone and broken his nose just because Ron wasn't there to watch him for three days. Harry was a reckless, impulsive person—it had happened before. His mate continued, green eyes shining. "It's not like Ron refusing to come in through the front is news. We have a back door, you know."

Hermione flushed, now from embarrassment as opposed to anger. It was the lesser of evils, even though an embarrassed Hermione wasn't any less reactive than an angry one. Ron sent Harry a thumbs up as subtly as he could. Harry's smile grew, but he didn't return the thumb. Probably to avoid Hermione's attention.

"Oh, alright then. Hello, Harry."

"Hello, Hermione," Harry echoed, amused. That calm way of dealing with bemusing situations was something he inherited from his mum; the one that wasn't Pandora Lovegood, and also the one that Hermione was significantly less in love with. Callidora had that effect on people. "You're not really that late. Pandora hasn't noticed, if you're wondering."

Hermione huffed, nervously patting down her hair. " _I_ noticed. Isn't that enough?"

"Guess so. Hey, Ron."

"Hiya, Harry!"

"Wanna come in? Luna's made sandwiches for you. Have to warn you though: some of them have some out there ingredients. She's been experimenting. If you don't like it, just hand it to me and I'll eat it. Just _don't_ tell her they're gross."

Ron nodded, already aware of the procedures. As a direct contrast to his reaction, Hermione looked _enraptured_. He could practically see a quill scribbling away in her head. "Your sister experiments with food? How old is she?" Ah, there it was. The _awe._ No doubt Hermione was crediting Luna's experiments to her scientist mother.

Well, she wasn't wrong. But she wasn't entirely _right_ , either.

"Ten. She goes to Hogwarts next year. You guys coming in? No spiders in the back entrance." Harry ran his fingers through his hair and shot a look at his red-haired best friend, whose ears were about the same fiery colour. "Cal keeps it clean for Ron."

Feeling defensive of his _completely rational fear,_ the Weasley boy squirmed. "I don't like spiders, okay? What's wrong with that?" _Plenty of things,_ Hermione's expression seemed to say. Harry just looked amused.

 _Whatever._

Who cared about their opinions anyway? Certainly not Ron! Luna would get it — she never mocked Ron for the spider thing. If his only support against the Boy Who Lived and the Brightest Witch Of Her Age was a ten-year-old aspiring spell inventor, then Ron was confident of his chances. Any friend of Ginny's was bound to be a force to be reckoned with, after all. Especially her _best_ friend.

Hermione's stomach rumbled, interrupting Ron's ongoing internal monologue. She flushed heavily and cleared her throat, avoiding their eyes. "So... sandwiches?" There was a strange, hopeful tone to her voice that neither boy had ever heard from her before. It was almost shy.

Whatever it was going on inside her head, the Weasley boy didn't recognize it. Luckily, he didn't have to—Harry, somehow, knew exactly what the emotion on her face meant. His face softened. "Yeah, 'Mione. Come in. I already have our beds set up: we'll sleep in the same room for the entire holidays, I think."

Business as usual, at least on Ron's end of things. "Wicked!"

But Hermione looked as if she'd been given a most priceless gift. Her smile was resplendent. " _Wicked,_ " She echoed.

It was the happiest Ron had ever seen her.


	15. the one where callidora is finally happy

Title: fish hooks in the corners of their mouths  
Category: Books » Harry Potter  
Author: deletrear  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Summary: "Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place." ... Not entirely accurate, but it'll do for describing the situation. People swallow that explanation easier than: 'I died once, but it's okay! I got better!' [SI OC, Black!OC, Marauders Era]  
Notes: Officially: Xeno is dead (dies during a Hogsmeade raid buying a Valentines gift for Pandora; Callidora was with him) and Callidora did use Illegal Dark Magic to create Luna. Luna is the biological kid of Callidora and Pandora in this 'verse. Ginny is Sorted into Slytherin. For the final time, thank you to everyone who witnessed and helped me along this journey of mine.

* * *

16.

 **fish hooks in the corners of their mouths**

 _the one where callidora gets her happy ending_

* * *

.

Callidora stepped out of the Floo and into the living room. She brushed the loose soot and dirt from her mud-stained overalls and straightened her suspenders. Her thick dragon-hide gloves were tucked into the side of her pants, and her boots, when she kicked them against the edge of the fireplace, shed clumps of dirt and weeds onto the hardwood floor.

"Welcome home, Mum," Luna said distractedly. She was embroidering a three-headed purple lizard into a peculiar neon orange handkerchief. Her handiwork was coming along nicely, and Callidora heard herself hum in approval. Catching it, Luna looked up and sent her a small, pleased smile. "How was work?"

"As it always was," Callidora didn't want to get into it right now — or with Luna, for that matter. The girl was nine. She had no interest in Callidora's career as the Herbologist fancy people went to for consultation. Her daughter was certainly not fascinated by the fact that some snooty pureblood needed Callidora's expertise to treat a plant rash on his nether regions.

Pandora, on the other hand, would be thrilled and gleeful to hear all about it.

"Where's Harry?" Callidora asked, already moving for the stairs to change out of her dirty clothes.

"At Cedric's."

"And your Mummy?"

"Mum, you're tracking mud through the house!"

"I'll clean it up," Callidora huffed, amused when Luna sent her a disbelieving look. "It isn't like your Mummy will," Callidora said in her defense. As expected, this settled Luna right down, though she did continue sending Callidora's muddy footprints a particularly scathing look.

About Pandora, Luna said, "She's hanging the washing," which was _such_ a short sentence to fill Callidora Black with such a potent amount of dread. It stopped her in her tracks. Luna sent her a commiserating look. "I _tried_ to tell her not to but she wouldn't listen!"

"Bad Mummy."

"The _baddest_ ," Luna agreed. "Are you going to clean your mess now?"

She was so much like her mother. Pandora's bad choices could wait, as could changing clothes. Callidora grinned and dived forward to plant dramatic kisses all over Luna's face. She giggled and shrieked and squirmed, but she was laughing by the time Callidora was finished, and when Callidora disappeared to find her other parent, Luna didn't nag her about the mess. It was a battle won, in her opinion.

.

* * *

.

"It doesn't feel right."

Callidora rubbed her finger along the pale ridged edge of her wand and lost herself in the rough, unpleasant sensation against her sensitive fingertips. She hummed. "It shouldn't."

Pandora was so used to crying that when the tears started, she barely noticed them. She was nursing a room-temperature bottle of muggle alcohol that Callidora had wrapped in a paper bag: she thought it was good that she didn't know how much alcohol she was ingesting. If she had the slightest clue, she might be inclined to monitor herself, and right now, control was the last thing Pandora was interested in.

The very first thing, of course, would be Xenophilius Lovegood.

(Past tense, these days.)

"It's been months. _Months._ It still feels like — like yesterday, like it happened — like the day it happened, it still feels like that." Pandora put her hand to her stomach, which had been home to a twisting, breathing black hole of grief since the day she'd lost him. "It hasn't healed at _all_. It doesn't — it doesn't hurt any less. I think… I think it's _worse._ I think it's getting worse. Is that possible?"

Callidora was silent for a moment. Pandora jumped when she felt a calloused palm — _a gardener's hands, so strange to hold, always so unexpectedly rough_ — fumble for her hand and hold it tightly. "Yeah," She said simply, and it would be underwhelming if not for the ragged, wrecked way Callidora's voice sounded, clawing its way out of her throat.

Pandora shut her eyes against a onslaught of tears.

Callidora laughed, bitter and cold. It was a sound that settled like sludge in your chest. Once, Callidora used to giggle, and Pandora's heart would set off for the sun on hummingbird wings, all flutter and buzz and color. It'd been awhile since those days. Months. _Months._

"One-hundred and eighty seven days," So much _pain._ Surely they'd had their fill by now? Pandora held Callidora's hands so hard her nails bit into those gardener's hands. They bit and like a glutton, they chewed without swallowing. There was so much _hurt_ here. How could it ever be easy? The claminess between their palms could have been sweat or blood or both. "It was supposed to get _easier_. Cal. _Cal,_ they said it would get _easier_ —"

She didn't laugh this time. She didn't open her mouth at all. She didn't do anything. But Pandora heard, clear as a bell: _they lied._

 _._

* * *

.

Luna stood on the porch and watched. She liked watching. There was something to be said about quiet observation. She didn't mind so much being on the sidelines, being an outsider looking in, being that sneaky bird perched high on a branch, peering down at the happenings beneath it. It wasn't like she was excluded just because she wasn't in the middle of it: if anything, being on the outside was the most important place to be. A lot of things happened when you watched, but they always changed when you joined in. Sometimes they changed and became more, like when Luna jumped into her parent's beds in the morning and started a tickle fight.

But at times like these, Luna's addition would change things for the lesser, and she didn't really want that right now.

You see, other children saw their parents as nothing more than that: _parents_. Luna was a unique child who knew her parents were more than that — not to _her_ , certainly, but to each other. Mum and Mummy were Callidora and Pandora, or _CalandPan_ in their special moments, and Luna considered it a great treat to watch them like that.

(Though not for long. Callidora and Pandora were nice, and _CalandPan_ were sweet, but Mum and Mummy were Luna's absolute favourites. She didn't like leaving them alone together too long. What if they forgot about _her?_ )

Still. For now, Luna sat on the first step of the blue porch, and contently observed her parents' happiness.

Under the clothesline, Pandora was overcome with a persistent bout of giggles, broken only by her protests. "No — no, no, no — _Cal,_ please, just let me do this, okay? I know what I'm doing — _Cal!_ " Pandora released the wet towel and placed her hands on her hips, cheeks like scarlet roses at the height of spring. "I can do this without your help!

Cal had shaken the towel of wrinkles and was now pegging it to the line. "You _can_ , yes, but I'm afraid the way you're hanging the clothes is _wrong_ , and I really can't just sit back and watch you hang pants upside down on such a pleasant day."

Pandora equipped herself with a shirt and huffed. "They're called _trousers_ , and I _do_ hang them right, because there's no way to hang clothes _wrong_. As long as they dry, who cares?"

"You're so uncultured."

"It's a piece of clothing! All that matters is that it dries!"

"I'm not ironing a shirt if I don't have to, Pan, and I don't have to iron anything if I _shake it_ —"

Pandora pinned her socks individually, just to watch the thunder cloud gather on Callidora's face when she caught on. "That's a lie, there's no such thing. Stop being so fussy!" Callidora had rearranged the socks so that they were pegged in pairs, and had done so while eyeing Pandora in betrayal and wariness. "Can't we just leave them out for a while to be sure they're dry? Isn't that good enough?"

" _No_ ," Said Callidora, sounding for all the world like Pandora had announced her desire to make Ichabod into tortoise soup. " _God_ , no, of course it isn't. Why don't you just— Pan, _no_ , stop trying so hard— why don't you do inside and help Luna with her embroidery?"

"Lu hardly needs my assistance. This is a full load. You need my helping hands—"

"Keep your filthy hands away from where they are not wanted, my love," Pandora ignored this and began hanging up the wet clothes in the most obnoxious way possible. Callidora sighed, as if Pandora could not read her wife well enough after two decades that she couldn't tell when she was secretly amused. "Pan— _Pan_ —"

"It's just clothes," Pandora said firmly. She flashed a smile at Callidora, stole a kiss, and managed to hang three shirts by the sleeves in the time it took the Ancient and Noble Black witch to recover.

Pandora: 1. Callidora: 0.

.

* * *

 _._

 _Knock, knock, knock!_

The thunderous sound could have woken the dead. Pandora was alert instantly, rolling off her bed and landing in a crouch. She armed herself with her wand and steadied herself against the wall, head tilted towards the sound.

 _Knock, knock, knock!_

Pandora dug her fingers into the wallpaper and breathed. She could feel her heartbeat in her teeth. Why would a Death Eater knock? They never knocked. They kicked doors off their hinges or shattered windows or blew up walls, but they _never_ knocked. But Callidora knew better than to knock like that. They'd established a code _weeks_ ago, in fact, for the very reason Pandora hesitated now: so they would know it was safe, so they wouldn't have to make themselves sick deliberating whether it was worth the risk to open a _goddamn door._

The pause between knocks was longer this time. Pandora's shoulders went taut, and a long list of scenarios flashed through her head, all of them bloody and fiery and bursting with wartime paranoia. But the next time the door was knocked on—

 _Knock-knock-knock, knock, knock-knock!_

Pandora was at the door in a heartbeat, throwing it open. She expected Callidora. What she _didn't_ expect was a _half-awake/half-alive_ Callidora standing only by the grace of an ashy Sirius Black, but lo and behold...

Pandora blinked rapidly, trying to process the picture in front of her.

James Potter, who was watching the empty streets ( _no one would be out at this time_ , Pandora thought to tell him, resisting only because Merlin knew that James Potter knew a great deal more about the status of the streets than she did), calmly said, "Nice night out, isn't it?"

Pandora stood to the side and said, equally as flatly, "Come on in."

Sirius was limping when he entered. He managed the energy for a cheeky wink. "Hullo, Pandora. You're a sight for sore eyes. Got a place for her?" He shook Callidora, who muttered something sharp and non-English. Pandora helped him hold her and took her to an armchair, gently seating her. As it was, Callidora did not look any more alive on the plushy sofa than she did at the doorway.

It used to be a comfort to have Callidora home after a mission for the Order. Now, it just meant that Callidora was bleeding on the couches, inviting paranoia into Pandora's heart and the war into their home. The Order used to mean more than another target on their backs. It used to mean that there was a chance for peace. It was hard to remember that, when Callidora was pale and maybe-not-even-alive, sitting bloody and bruised where she usually sat for tea and a biscuit.

Pandora pressed the heel of her palm into her eyes. "What happened?"

"She had a mission, she got caught, we nearly didn't get her in time," Sirius answered shortly, snapping his fingers at James. The Potter threw a container of something— salve, as it turned out, because Sirius was smearing the concoction on Callidora's clotted cuts, and they were healing quickly. "Not to worry! If anything scars, it's not like she's sacrificing a great deal of attractiveness, considering where she started."

"Not as naturally gifted in the looks department as you," James said cordially, patting his best friend's shoulder. "Don't take it personal, Cal. I'm sure your personality is wonderful."

This time, Callidora's mutter was very much in English, and loud enough that everyone caught it. James grinned resplendently at the unflattering name he was called. A line of tension Pandora hadn't realized was present melted from Sirius' shoulders. "Well, if she's well enough to call you that, she's probably going to live," Sirius announced, tapping the back of his knuckles against his cousin's cheek. "Had us worried for a sec, mate."

James said, "I knew you'd pull through."

It felt like a winter had kissed the back of her neck, the way Pandora's blood froze. It had not occurred to her that Callidora was in any danger, but now that she knew, the panic set upon her with a vengeance. She felt both grateful for the Marauder's in her living room and incandescently furious with them. _And if she hadn't pulled through? If she'd died here? In front of me, unable to conjure a single word in English? Would you have let me watch as the one person I have left died silently, too pained to offer me a parting word?_

 _What if she'd died, you wankers?_

 _How could you bring her back here to me_ _ **to die**_ —

"I can handle it from here." Pandora cut in, tone frosty. "Be careful on your way home. You have people awaiting your safe return." Sirius winced. Perhaps he caught what she meant. Perhaps he didn't. She didn't much care.

"'Right then, best be off. Prongs, we'll take your—" James nodded, interrupting whatever it was Sirius was about to say, "—Pandora, it was a treat to see you. You're as beautiful as ever." Pandora didn't react. If she'd allowed herself to, she couldn't say that it wouldn't be violent. _Beautiful?_ Was that supposed to be a consolation?

"Rest up, Cal. Don't worry about briefing for a while. Get better. Padfoot and I will hold down the fort."

"We'll do your anal retentive system proud, little cousin, I swear."

"Piss off," was Callidora's croaky reply. "Just leave already before Pandora throws you out."

"She wouldn't—" Began James, but one look at Pandora's face must have convinced him otherwise, because the young men didn't even try to crack a parting joke before leaving. Pandora watched them go from the doorway, not too angry to be careless enough to let them go without making sure they'd gone _safely._ As soon as they had disappeared, Pandora went for the chair.

She went to her knees and rested her arms on Callidora's lap, staring up at her friend's exhausted, sallow features. Even her hair — chocolate ringlets normally so full of life — hung defeated and limp against her skull. The cuts were healing, but this war was responsible for more wounds than the physical; not all of which could be healed with a pungent-smelling salve.

"Hey," the injured woman muttered. It sounded like it hurt to say that much. One of her eyes pried open. For the first time tonight, Pandora made eye contact with her, and there were no words for the reassurance it gave the Travers girl, to see her eyes and know, _believe,_ that she was really _home_. It was a visceral relief. Callidora's eyes were striking, stormy blue, dull with exhaustion but alight, still, with the same bone-shaking pleasure to be home as Pandora felt _having_ her home.

Pandora hid her head in Callidora's lap and moved her arms to wrap around her waist.

"Hi," She replied feebly, chest still quaking, "Thanks for coming home."

Callidora shrugged. Maybe she wanted to say more, but with her body as exhausted and her throat as bruised as it was, there wasn't the opportunity for it. One of her hands fell limply into Pandora's hair and stayed there, not doing much except weigh down on her skull.

Pandora cried quietly until they'd both fallen asleep. Callidora breathed on. They didn't mention any of it in the morning.

.

* * *

.

The window was cracked open, letting in the smell of her garden and the sound of one of the less-irritating types of birdsong. Sunlight streamed in through the curtains, carrying with it the promise of a gentle summer morning. Waking happened without rush, akin to swimming through a pool of honey. Callidora woke slowly and sweetly, with her blankets hanging off the bed and her bare back soaking up the sunshine.

Her first thought was, _it's a good Saturday_ , and it sounded more like a sigh of relief than any real language.

Callidora took her time stretching. She laid in her warm spot and breathed into wakefulness. When she did get up, she felt rested, energized. She threw on a soft pink shirt that might have been Pandora's and covered the rest of her body with a silky green robe. She stepped into her slippers and followed the noise into the kitchens.

It sounded like they had guests come by this morning, because Callidora was sure there weren't that many voices here last night. Among the chattering voices was the clanging of silver on plates and the sizzling of breakfast. There were cries for syrup and sugar and butter, and if Callidora closed her eyes, she could almost imagine the gentle crooning of _que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be._

Ah, but she wasn't Camila anymore.

(It wasn't a bad thing these days.)

Callidora entered the room to see she had gained an entire family of visitors while she slept. This was not an exaggeration. The entire Weasley clan was at her table, as well as Hermione Granger (this one, Callidora had been expecting, though she _was_ a day early), the Diggory's, Sirius, Remus, and Callidora's own children, Luna and Harry. Pandora and Molly Weasley weren't sitting at the magically-extended table; their voices could be heard from the kitchens, where Pandora was surely pretending she wasn't burning everything she touched.

Cedric spotted her first. He swallowed his mouthful of sausage with difficulty. "Morning, Mrs Black!"

"Oh, morning, Cal," Said Harry, positively glowing as he sat between Ron and Hermione, Cedric and the Weasley twins across from him.

"Morning, Mrs Black!" half the room chorused, while the others, mainly the adults, smiled and said, "Good morning, Callidora." (With the exception of Sirius, who delighted in calling her "Dora," and delighter further by the finger she stuck up in response.)

"Good morning," Callidora mumbled, unwilling to show how amused she was. "Having fun?"

"This is delicious," Hermione said, with _feeling_ , "I've never tasted hotcakes this good in my life!"

"Mrs Weasley is a very talented cook," Luna said, eating a raw stick of celery that she must have filched from Callidora's garden, because no one else had a green speck of anything on their plate. "I know you insist on being polite, but you don't have to thank Mummy. She didn't cook any of this." Luna told Hermione, who was stubbornly making her way to thank Pandora anyway.

Cedric laughed and said to Harry, "Remember when we asked for ham sandwiches and Pandora burnt them?"

Harry grinned. "She thought we'd like them toasted,"

"It was a nice thought," Cedric said generously, "if a bit unnecessary."

"Mum loves nice thoughts," said Fred, which was believable, as many people appreciated sentiment.

" _And_ unnecessary things," said George, much less believably. "I think they're getting along just great." Pandora was assuredly toasting everything to the point of charcoal. Mrs Weasley probably didn't appreciate the extra hands making breakfast, but was likely too polite to banish someone from their own kitchen.

Ginny had folded her toast in half to shove in her mouth when the egg literally exploded. She was now wiping yolk from her chin with a napkin and hissing, "Ron, you took my egg!"

Ron frowned at his half-eaten egg. "I was just thinking that mine wasn't runny enough. Well, it's not like we can do much about it, since you fed my egg to your shirt and all,"

"You've already eaten most of mine!"

"That's just not even the point—"

"Amos, could you pass me the pepper— ah, thank you, friend."

"You're welcome, Arthur. Tell me, how has it been at the Ministry lately?"

"Oh, you know how it is—"

Harry jolted and hissed, "Luna, stop throwing your toast crust at me!"

"Then pass me the syrup." Luna snuck a look at Callidora. "Please."

Hermione was glaring at the Twins. "What was that for? If you want something, just ask! There's no need to kick me under the table!"

"We don't want anything,"

"Yeah, we just felt in the mood for kicking, is all,"

"Nothing personal, Hermione,"

"Though if you wouldn't mind passing along the butter, that'd be splendid."

"Harry! We should play a round of Quidditch! Seeker versus Seeker!"

"Haven't you two been playing against each other since… forever?"

Cedric waved his hand dismissively. "It's different now, Dad. Harry's _Seeker_."

Ron said, proudly, "The _youngest_ Seeker in a century." He whipped towards Callidora and began, excited, "Actually, we saw a trophy about Harry's dad— Harry, tell her!"

Harry blinked in confusion, before his jaw popped open and he turned to Callidora and Sirius. "We saw a trophy in the trophy cases and—"

"Trophy cases?" Remus said, gently perplexed. Sirius was grinning. "You weren't by chance polishing them?"

"Detention, Harry?" Said Callidora, wondering why she hadn't known about this and if that might be because a certain wife of hers had seen fit to protect Harry from a Howler.

Harry sent them pleading looks to _please_ shut up. "Yes, detention, I'm really sorry about it but to be fair, I didn't really deserve it, it was all Draco's fault because he's a git and the worst cousin ever. Anyways, the trophy— Dad has a trophy! It says he was a Seeker and Captain when he went to school! Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Callidora was lost. Sirius, however, looked quite proud of himself. "He wasn't a Seeker," Remus replied, sending a suspicious look at his fellow Marauder. "He was a Chaser. Bloody good one, too. I haven't seen anyone play like him. Good enough to be made Captain, easily, but I'm afraid James didn't have the patience for Seeking. He needed the attention, you see,"

"Then why did the trophy…"

"It's only a small part of a very long story," Sirius leaned forward, already smiling like an imp. He knew he'd ensnared the table as an audience, and was evidently enjoying the spotlight. "It involves McGonagall, rooster feathers, greasy gits, and terrible DADA Professors. I'm not sure it's appropriate conversation for breakfast, to be honest…"

"Tell us!" Was the unanimous response.

Sirius seemed all too happy to oblige. "Okay, so, we're in our third year of Hogwarts when we get the worst Defense teacher in the history of Hogwarts— at the time, at least, this isn't counting yours Harry; you beat us there," which Harry seemed _far_ too pleased about for Callidora's liking, "and this teacher — Professor Montgomery was his name, I called him Monty, he called me scoundrel, it was a thing — positively _despised_ the Marauders. Oh, he'd do all sorts of things to punish us, give us detentions for the smallest of infractions…"

Callidora thought, _why the hell not indulge him this once?_ and settled in like the others to listen to what was surely a well-rehearsed, exaggerated tale.

(She was in Sirius' year, and she very much did _not_ remember a Professor Montgomery.)

.

* * *

.

Thump.

It was so easy. So easy that it didn't feel real. That had to be the reason Callidora lingered like a twisted voyeur, gazing unwelcome on the cooling body of the enemy. He had trusted his food. He had trusted his food, and Callidora had every single one of his House Elves knocked out in the kitchen and stuffed into cupboards, and he had trusted his food and now he was _dead_ —

 _Ah,_ she thought dizzily, feeling her breathing in her ears, _there it is._

Callidora left for the Apparation Point and made her way to the Order HQ. It was late but even if Dumbledore hadn't given her this terribly urgent assignment of which he could entrust to no one except her, _her_ , the old wizard worked around the clock. _This is war; as I'm sure you understand, Ms Black, war requires more than courage_ —

"It's done. I did it."

"You have done the Order a great debt that can never be repaid," He looked down at her from his long, crooked nose and sighed regretfully. His face softened. His wrinkles grew in heaviness, number, and severity. He reached out and touched Callidora's shoulder gently: she did not react, unfeeling as she suddenly was. "My girl, I cannot put into words how it grieves me that I had asked this of you."

"It needed to be done," Said Callidora, repeating what he had told her. "I knew him as a child. He was not a nice man." The words felt empty. Callidora wasn't nice. What did that mean for her?

"No. No, he wasn't." Dumbledore sounded grave. He took his hand back and told her to leave, return home and rest. He would call her when he needed her, but until then, he requested that she take the time to come to terms with her deed, and that she heal as much as possible. Her comfort, he insisted, was his primary concern.

Callidora found it hard to believe that her comfort was anyone's primary concern. People were dying. Women and children, _slaughtered._ Homes were being burnt with entire families locked inside. Magical families and muggle families— no one was being spared the horrors of war. It was only fair that Callidora sacrifice something, even if this wasn't exactly her first time killing—

— _stop it._

Go home. Rest. Heal as much as possible.

Callidora didn't remember the trip home. She didn't remember drawing the curtains shut and climbing into bed and sleeping into noon the next day, but when she woke, it was Xenophilius' face she saw. He had a cup of tea in one hand. The other hand was gently shaking her.

"Dumbledore told us," was all he said, waiting until she sat up before he gave her the cup. Callidora drank and tasted nothing. She felt nauseous and would not look at him. Xenophilius hated violence. He _despised_ it. And here she was: murderer, honorless, assassin, sitting in his house, drinking his tea. Too guilty of her own sins to glance in his direction.

She couldn't finish her tea. It tasted like mud. The fault had to be with her. Xenophilius' tea had never tasted anything less than exceptional. It had to be her. The problem had to be something inside of her. Xenophilius would never. Pandora would never. But she had and she has and she _did_ , just last night, perhaps early morning. He had trusted his food. He had trusted—

It did not register that she was sobbing into Xenophilius' chest until his fingers were brushing through her hair with all the gentle consideration that made her love him in the first place. She thought she might have been apologizing, thought that it would be impossible for her to stop, and Xenophilius sounded so sad when he promised, "This doesn't change anything."

"How can you even _say_ that?"

"I love you," Xenophilius told her, all simple-like, as if this were some sort of be-all-end-all fact of the universe that could fix everything. "I do. I love you enough that what you have done doesn't change that."

"You can't just— it isn't— it isn't that si—"

"It's war," said Xenophilius, drained, and God, Callidora forgot sometimes that just because he and Pandora weren't apart of the Order, it didn't mean they weren't apart of this fucking _war_ — this war that was killing people, ruining families, tearing apart the world, tearing _her_ up, he had trusted his _food_ and she had used that to— to— _to_ — "It'll never be fair and it'll never be simple. But I love you, and that has to be enough."

She cried until she was dizzy, and cried more until she'd passed out, and bit her tongue on the frantic, _it won't be enough, it won't be enough, it won't be enough_ —

.

* * *

.

Molly Weasley visits occasionally with her daughter. Harry isn't surprised when he's told that he can't be seen— maybe a bit disappointed, sure, but he understands why it's necessary, and this isn't like how the Dursley's told him to hide and pretend he didn't exist. Those bouts could go on for days, leaving him cold and weak and starving. This was only temporary.

What _does_ surprise him is when Callidora escorts him to his room and then _sits down._

Harry can't help himself. "You're staying with me?"

Callidora gives him a sidelong look of amusement. "Can't just leave you in here all alone, can I? It wouldn't be fair of me. Who knows how long the Weasley will stick around?"

"I can take care of myself," Harry mutters, "you don't have to babysit me. I can keep quiet."

"I don't doubt you."

"So, er... "

"Oh, I'm still staying with you. I like spending time with you, Harry, much more than I like hanging around Mrs Weasley out there. She's not too fond of me, you see— don't look so upset," Callidora says, almost chiding, but Harry can't stop himself from frowning. Callidora's _great_. Why wouldn't Mrs Weasley like her? "I can hardly blame her."

 _I can_ , he thinks resentfully. "Why do you let her over if she's so rude?"

"She's not, really. And it's good for Luna, I think. Being around people her own age." Harry shifts and he doesn't know why. Callidora's eyes are uncomfortably sharp on him. She gets like this sometimes; Harry wishes he knew the reason behind those scarily perceptive moods of hers. "Do you want to be around people your own age, Harry?"

Harry isn't sure. The only people he's ever met that were his age either didn't like him, were bullies, were Dudley's friends, or the winning combination of all three. He's never been liked by anyone the same age as him. He isn't even certain of how it's supposed to go. So he shrugs, says, "I dunno," and hopes Callidora doesn't clip him over the head for it.

She hums. No smacking at all. She's great like that. "Is that so?" There's no inflection to her voice, no chiding, and yet Harry is hit with an overwhelming urge to explain himself.

Harry flushes, embarrassed, "Well... even if I did want to... I couldn't. Right? Not when I'm—" he gestures to his forehead, because one of the first things Callidora did when she brought him back to her house was explain his scar, "—like this."

"I'd figure something out, Harry. If you really wanted. You're not my dirty secret. You're— you're a little boy, and little boys need friends."

"Why would I need friends when I have you and Pandora and Luna?"

Callidora blinks; she seems a bit flustered. Well, that makes two of them.

"It's different," she says, coughing. "We're family. Family and friends mean different things. They can do different things for you. Everyone needs a friend," Harry shrugs noncommittally. That's debatable. "Hm... well, we can always revisit the topic. You come to me if you ever change your mind, okay, Harry? Even if you're just curious. Your needs are much more important to me than keeping you hidden away,"

 _I don't want to be taken from you_ , he thinks, even as he's nodding and muttering, "Okay, Cal,"

Callidora smiles, gently strokes his chin, then stands. "Now. Do you want to do something fun? Not that sitting around your room waiting for Mrs Weasley to leave doesn't thrill me, but I'm sure there's better activities to be found in this big ol' house of ours,"

Ours. Harry swallows, pushes a grin onto his face, and bounces on his heels. "Can we go flying?"

Callidora isn't very good at flying. Still, she shrugs and places her hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him in front of her, closing the door behind them. "As long as you don't tell Pandora," Harry promises not to, and Callidora sighs, a bit too melodramatic to be genuine. Harry loves that he can tell. "Alright. Only for a bit, though, okay?"

"Sure! Only for a bit!" He's rewarded with a small smile. His grin grows, and she doesn't remove her hand from his shoulder until he has to mount the broom.

.

* * *

.

I was told of Luna's capture by the Weasley's—specifically, by the youngest one, Ginny.

It was Arthur who invited me over and Molly who built up to it, let the suspense and the horror and the lingering dread of already-knowing grow in the back of my head, stubbornly unthought as if that could make it _unreal_ , but in the end the one with the balls to inform me is the teenage girl.

"They took Luna," Ginny said calmly, with none of the guile you would find in a child. I knew why. The horror of war was far-reaching, with the apathy and omniscience of an estranged God. I was no stranger to the unfeeling creatures war turned children into, Slytherins especially.

Oh, the curse of understanding the cost of survival.

 _Too young,_ I thought. I don't think it helped much.

"On the train. I saw them."

She couldn't stop them. I didn't ask for her reasons why. If Ginny couldn't stop them from taking my baby girl, it was no fault of her own. Ginny loved Luna fiercely enough to fight for her: I trusted in that, because I trusted that my daughter was not foolish nor free with her love, and yet here, red-haired and stone-faced, was the main recipient of it. I trusted my daughter's judgement. There was nothing else for me to do.

Still, there was a swooping sensation of dread that made me bow my head, as if forced down by a heavy weight. Perhaps that was what dread was: a heavy weight, a stone, an anchor caught between two rocks, weighing the ship down until it was stuck at the mercy of battering of waves. With the news came a physical nausea, like talons of sickness had sunken into my bones and planted roots there. Already, there was a cold sweat going down my spine. I was shaking.

Luna.

Luna, Luna, Luna.

She was scared somewhere. It killed me. She was frightened, trapped somewhere I _couldn't remember_ , being tortured for all I knew—and for what? Because her mother was the editor of a magazine that published magical science? Because I was a known blood-traitor and notorious pain in the Dark Lord's ass?

Luna was suffering for choices she didn't make. A child, carrying her parent's sins.

"You knew."

I covered my burning eyes with my hands and said, "I waited at the station for her. It's why I didn't answer your first call."

Molly put her hand on my shoulder. For the first time, I didn't avoid it. Her touch anchored me to the room. It didn't help, necessarily, and it soothed nothing, but—but knowing that she was worried about it too, that she knew from experience that there was nothing I _could_ do but wait at the station for a daughter I knew wasn't coming… it reminded me that I wasn't alone. Even though I _was_.

I wished that could change something, but it didn't. All either of us could do was be _sorry._

Pandora was gone. Luna was gone. I needed them to be together if they couldn't be safe at my side. At least let them be together.

"Why did they take her?"

"Her mother," said Arthur, sending a look at the empty fireplace.

"The _Lovegood_? It hasn't even published anything new in months," said Ginny, voice taking an edge that even I couldn't decipher. _Middle age,_ I thought wildly; it makes complacent fools out of us all.

"No," I said involuntarily, the word torn from me, "It wasn't Pan. It can't have been. They—they already have her, so this isn't to keep Harry Potter's biggest public supporter under control. It's—it's me. They're controlling me."

Molly hand tightened until I felt it would bruise. I barely felt it. "Oh, Callidora," she whispered, "Why didn't you mention this?"

"You know why," I dug my nails into my scalp and tried to remember how to breathe again. "You _know_ why."

Arthur closed his eyes. "They bought your silence on Pandora by leaving Luna alone." His words were a sigh. "Who did you tell?"

"Nymphadora wouldn't leave it alone," I told them, strangled. "I don't know how they knew that I'd told someone—we were in a secure area, no one was listening in—"

"Taboo curse. Death Eaters are fond of them." This was from Ginny, who was watching me break down with no particular emotion on her face for it. It reminded me rather suddenly who she was; what type of person she was. Not only a Slytherin, but a Slytherin co-leading the only resistance to be found in Hogwarts. She needed her wits and her cunning, Miss Weasley did, and I knew very well that such things couldn't be mastered without the sacrifice of the softer parts of you. "What are you going to do?"

I lifted my head. Molly tightened her hand and warned, tightly, "Ginny."

Ginny ground her teeth. She ignored her mother. Again, she asked, "What are you going to do."

 _How are you going to fix this?_

I regretted not writing down my memories of this universe when the details were still fresh in my head. I regretted waiting thirty years to invest myself in the events of this timeline, of treating this like a world I didn't have impossible insight into, of pretending that I couldn't be swayed by the tides and decisions of others. My knowledge was not reliable nor was it invincible, but half-knowledge was better than _nothing_ , and I should have _known better_ —

Regrets could wait.

"I need to get her back." I dragged my hands down my face, narrowed my eyes at Ginny, and selfishly let myself be drawn into the strange determination in this young girl's eyes. I'd gotten soft. Looking at her, I could almost feel ashamed at my compliance. I'd gotten comfortable. Excess of comfort had always been my downfall. "Both of them. I'll return both of them to safety."

Ginny nodded as if in approval. She crossed her arms and let the first signs of fury flit across her face. She was staring over Molly's shoulder, eyes lost in a deep thought. "I'll help," she said. It wasn't an offer. I couldn't refuse it.

Molly breathed, " _Absolutely not,_ "

I looked at Molly apologetically and knew, with the certainty of a mother, that she would never forgive me for what I was about to say, for what I was about to volunteer her daughter for. But I couldn't hesitate. I said, "I'll take all the help I can get."

The noise Molly made caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. I couldn't afford to be cowed.

My wife. My _daughter_.

There was nothing I wouldn't do to get them back.

For the first time since she was twelve, Ginny Weasley smiled at me.

Her mouth had so many _teeth_ these days.

.

* * *

.

This family has a strange, open, demonstrative way of being affectionate.

It isn't saved for special occasions. It happens everywhere; Harry is thrilled each time to notice it. He bears witness to a flowing river of— and there's no other word for it, as cheesy as the notion is— _love_. Better yet, he's apart of it. Callidora tells him that love is enough and she doesn't just mean it, _she proves it._

"You are the brightest star in my life," Pandora says, as if this is declaration of love doesn't require a specific atmosphere or build up to have gravity and truth to it. To further disenchant the situation, Pandora licks icing from Callidora's nose; perhaps to others, confessions of love should be limited to romantic situations. Not for these two. Not for this family.

"As usual, my love, you are the moonlight and stars personified," Says Callidora, scrubbing plant-pus from her wife's cheek. "I would not have you any other way." Pandora smiles, and Callidora smiles, and when they kiss, Harry has to look away.

Luna hangs upside down from Callidora's shoulders, her legs held securely by her mother, and head steadily collecting all the blood in her body, and she asks questions about _nargles_ and _crumple-horned snorkacks_ and _turnish styxies_ ; Callidora recites everything that she knows, and feels a blooming in her chest, and thinks: _finally._

 _Finally, it is easier._

(And for the second time in his life, Harry Potter is saved by the unconditional love of a mother.)

.

* * *

.

Callidora caught herself thinking, pleading to some higher power that _surely this is it, surely I'm finished_ , whenever Bellatrix pointed her wand at her. Callidora was always wrong. The word fell from Bella's— Bellatrix's lips, and the most intense, white-hot, soul-shaking pain Callidora had ever experienced burned her body from the inside out. She screamed long enough to tear up her throat. She'd stopped begging a while ago— _how long ago, how long have I been here, how long has Alice been out_ — _Alice, Alice, Alice_ —

Neville was crying. Somewhere. He was still hidden by the spells, by the wards, Callidora had warded his bedroom, hadn't she, _hadn't she_ , with the lost shred of control she'd had, she'd done what she promised his parent's she would do and she protected him—

"Bella, Bella, please,"

"'Bella, Bella, please,' you never did have a backbone, did you, Dora? Dearest Dora? Hmm, little sister?" Bella— Bellatrix's eyes were very wide, very close, and so very brown. She looked unfamiliar. It was frightening, that Callidora could look in the face of the first voice she remembered in this life and feel nothing but fear, terror of what an unpredictable stranger could do.

 _Don't call me sister. You aren't my sister. You aren't my Bella._

"—make her beg, Bellatrix! Make her beg for mercy!"

"Do her like the other ones," hissed Crouch Jr., sounding as if he were riding a high, "Make her like the poor little Longbottom's, Bells, you have to, you have to make them match, see—"

"Quiet! Quiet, you idiots, I know what I'm doing!" Bellatrix snapped, whirling around and sending the very same torture curse at her husband and accomplice, as if it were a strike one. They both roared in pain, but settled quick; just a sting, it was, just a sting, just a sting, just a—

" _Crucio!_ "

This was worse than Mother's. This was worse than Father's. Worse than Lady Walburga's. Bellatrix and Crouch and Rabastan and Rodolphus were above them, in sadistic capability and cruelty and ruthlessness and evil, so evil, so completely evil, how could she have ever thought this monster was capable of love, of kindness, of, of, _my sister you were my big sister I truSTeD yOu AND yOuuUuu bETRayEd ME_ —

The pain doubles, triples— _I'm going to die I want to die please end this, just end this, I can't take it anymore I'm not strong enough for this_ — oh, oh, blissful release, relief, a hiss, "she is mine to hurt!"— _stop stop stop st op stop stopstopstopstop_ _ **STOP**_ _, I give up, I give up, please,_ please, b _ella p_ lease if a _n_ y of y _ou_ is s _till in there a_ nd re _me_ mbers th _at_ yo _u love_ d _me_ then kill me now—

Just do it now, just do it now, I'm ready, I'm ready—

"She's begging!" Rabastan crowed, and beside him, Crouch Jr. hollered like an animal, and she thought, _End this._ _ **End this.**_ "I can't believe it, she broke before the Longbottoms!"

"I always knew she was a weak one," said Rodolphus. _My… you're about as useful as a broken chair. And you don't even have the nerve to look me in the eye when I'm talking to you. Is she truly related to you, Bella? She's so…_ _ **small**_ _._

 _There's plenty I could say about that one_ — "Look at the way she cries! Pathetic, completely pathetic! Do you think we can get her to piss herself, Bella? Do you think we could get your little baby sister to wet her pants? Ha! I bet I could, if you could just let me do it, Bells, just give me a turn with her, will ya?" — _I'll save it for later, perhaps._

It goes on and on and on and on and on and on and the thing is, is that even when it stops, it doesn't stop. It doesn't stop. Bella— Bellatrix, Bellatrix Lestrange, not my sister not my sister she isn't mine anymore and her husband and his brother and their pathetic little friend are taken and Alice is gone, Frank is gone, Neville is gone, everyone is gone and it's just her in a hospital room, it doesn't stop. The pain isn't gone just because there isn't a wand at her nose.

It goes on and on and on and it doesn't _stop._

It takes years before Callidora stops begging for someone to please, just end it, just _end_ it—

.

* * *

.

"I want you to meet my son," Narcissa said. "You'll adore him," Narcissa said. "He's the most brilliant boy you'll ever meet," Narcissa said.

Narcissa _lied_.

"He didn't even know what the magic word was!" Callidora rants, stripping out of her dinner robes and pulling on silk pajamas that are, honestly, far too skimpy for the year she's currently living in. They make her boobs look fantastic though, so who's the real loser here? "What type of kid doesn't know what the magic word is?"

"Madness," Pandora, who _absolutely_ doesn't know what this 'magic word' is, agrees solemnly. "He gets it from Lucius."

Lucius, who is Pandora's cousin. Lucius, who is Pandora's cousin, who is married to Callidora's sister and has spawned a child with her. Lucius, who is Pandora's cousin, who is Callidora's wife, is married to Callidora's sister.

She's trying not to think about it.

"Luna would never behave like that in front of guests!" Callidora continues ranting. She's pulling on socks. Why she wears socks to bed, Pandora doesn't know. They are socks with little cacti on them. They're Callidora's favourite. "She actually has manners, unlike that pale-faced gremlin—"

"Is it possible—no, stay with me here, Cal—is it possible that you're taking your repressed resentment for Narcissa and the way she has treated you for the past twenty years out on her ten year old son?"

Callidora frowns and scratches her nose. "That's absurd. No, of course not." Pandora hums. "Pan. He didn't know the magic word. _How do you not know the magic word_?"

Pandora points her wand at the door and opens it a crack. She casually calls, "Luna, dear!"

"Mummy?"

"What's the magic word?"

There's a pause. "...What's the spell?"

Pandora sends Callidora a _'see?!'_ look. Callidora's nose wrinkles up, and she sticks her head out of the room. She calls. " _Harry_!"

"Yes?"

"If I asked you what the 'magic word' was, what would your answer be?"

A pause, awkwarder this time. "...Please?"

Callidora sniffs. "Exactly right, Harry. Thank you!"

"You're... welcome?"

Callidora's already shut the door. She whips around and raises her eyebrows at Pandora, a proud smile on her face. "See? Manners. Harry has them."

"Oh, that's enough," Pandora huffs, returning to her book, "Just brush your teeth and go to sleep already. It's late."

"Old hag."

"Petulant child."

Callidora's smile is impish and resplendent all at once. Her heart sings, _I love you, I love you, I love you._ "You know it."

.

* * *

.

Callidora wakes up with a hole in her chest and only one thought in her head. "Xeno, is he—"

Outside her room, Pandora is _wailing,_ and Callidora knows, she _knows_ , and Sirius looks down and James looks away and Andromeda says, "Oh, Dora," like she's just so terribly sorry about something and Callidora doesn't care, she doesn't _care_ , and she starts shouting. It isn't crying it isn't mourning it's _rage_ , and when she tears her room apart, she doesn't tell anyone to leave first because who cares if they get hurt?

Who cares? Who _cares?_

Xeno is dead and the world and everyone left on it can _burn_ until it gives him _back_.

.

* * *

.

"Married," She repeats, aware that she is staring but unable to stop. Beside her, Pandora gasps and covers her mouth. She's already crying. Callidora is stuck on the two hands. There are indeed wedding rings. Quite pretty, too. It must have strained their accounts to afford such a gem. The gem twinkles. Callidora says again, dumbly, " _Married_."

Luna says very gently, "That's what we said, yes. Mum, are you alright?"

Strangled, Callidora says again, " _Married!_ "

Pandora squeals and throws her arms around the girls. "Married! Cal, darling, they're getting married! Oh, I'm so happy for you, I'm over the _moon!_ This is the most wonderful news! Glorious! Cal, love! Married!"

"Yes. Married."

Pandora peppers Luna's face with kisses. "I'm so proud of you! And you as well, dear, for having such exceptional taste," this is said to the person Luna is to be married to. Because Luna is engaged. Engaged to be married. "Oh, this is— this is just every mother's dream," Pandora wipes her eyes and laughs, twinkling, twinkling like the gem in that ring which is an engagement ring because Luna is getting married? "I'm so— love, are you happy? Are you happy?"

"I think so," says Luna, sharing a secret smile with the partner she is about to be married to because she's engaged and it's a thing, "I don't think there is another soul on earth who could make me happier." The girls share a kiss, and Callidora resigns herself to having that aneurysm right about now, because none of this is making sense.

Choked, she clarifies: "Married… to each other?"

Ginny _freakin'_ Weasley raises her eyebrows. "That's the general intention of proposals, I think."

Callidora groans and slams her head into her hands. "I didn't even know you were dating!"

There's a stunned silence. Even Luna, so quick on her feet, seems ambushed by this revelation. Well, now they know how Callidora feels. This is— this is absurd. This is insane. This is the worst, most humiliating moment of Callidora's life.

Oh, _god._

 _Married?!_

"It sounds mad that someone would miss that you two are in love with each other," Pandora remarks sagely, "But Cal did not scratch her nose, which means that she really is that obtuse and had no clue that you two have been dating since you graduated Hogwarts."

 _God._ Luna was _thirty-four._

"Congratulations," Callidora moans into her hands, "I'm so proud of you. I'm happy for you. Welcome to the family, Ginny."

"Thanks, Mrs. Black," says Ginny, followed by a cheeky, "Or can I call you Mum now?"

"Wait," Says Luna, fascinated, "Does this mean you don't know about Harry and Neville?"

Callidora looks up, smiling, because this is a topic that makes her extraordinarily happy. "Actually, them I _did_ know about!" She's about to go on about how Harry came to her first to broach the topic. Mostly to determine how weird it would be if he, her foster son, attempted to possibly date her godson, and if that was morally reprehensible or if he was just overthinking their not-even-familial connection to each other. It had been a thrilling conversation, to be honest. Callidora thought of Harry's flustered face whenever she was having a bad day.

Before she can go on a tangent about this couple to her daughter, who has just told her that she is engaged to be married, which in hindsight wouldn't be very considerate, Pandora makes a strangled noise and says, strained, "Harry and Neville are _together?_ "

Ginny immediately, without pause, descends into hysterical laughter. Luna smiles, endeared and loving in the way you would smile at a senile grandmother, and says, "Oh, Mummy."

"For how long has this been going on?!"

"What an exciting day," Says Callidora, grin stretched so wide it hurts. She's so happy, it's painful. "Married," She trills, and now Luna and Ginny are blushing again. Callidora kisses their rosy cheeks. "Oh, this is everything I've ever wanted for you, Luna, treasure. Love!"

Pandora mutters, "I need to talk to Harry about this," but gives the girl's an extra round of kisses. They don't seem to mind. Luna is used to it, no doubt, and there isn't much that can affect Ginny Weasley, least of all maternal cheek kisses. Pandora sighs happily, as if a huge weight has been lifted from her shoulders, and Callidora has to agree.

Harry and Luna are happy and in love, for however long that lasts. Right now, however, it's everything Callidora wanted for her children, and it's enough. It's enough.

 _Peace. Be patient. Persevere. They'll get what's coming to them._ That was the mantra that carried Callidora over into adulthood. _Survive_ , she'd told herself as a child, fresh from the business end of her aunt's wand. _Survive_ , she'd whispered, fifteen and choking on her sobs because she'd just killed her own _mother_. It had carried her past Xenophilius, through the Longbottoms, through James, through Nymphadora, through every single hardship that had felt like the very last one she could endure. _Survive, survive, survive. Just get through this one._

She'd had it wrong the entire time. Survive? No. She shouldn't have ever thought it was possible for her to settle for survival. Happiness was about more than resigning yourself to the crumbs when a feast sat not two feet away from you. There was strength in survival, yes, but that wasn't what life was about, and Callidora had learned that. She'd _lived_ it and she _knew_ now, and she'd taught it to her daughter and her son, and now _they_ knew as well that the whole great purpose wasn't having the willpower to endure—

Callidora has never cried tears of joy in her entire life. As her eyes burn and her throat clogs and her cheeks burn from the sheer strength of her smile, a fifty-five year old Callidora Black comes to the conclusion that now is no better time to start.

(— _it was about having the courage to_ live _._ )


End file.
